Lymph Journal # 50 Palm Sunday

4/3/2012

Back in the chemo-lounger for today’s infusion of Rituxin.  Four thousand dollars worth of antibodies and a shot of prophylactic antihistamine that I can already feel is bringing on the fog that lasts all day.  But it’s another step in the treatment, another step closer to being, hopefully, done with this.  The lounge is filling up with the morning’s companions – no familiar faces probably because my old schedule has shifted in light of the changeover to the stem cell treatment.  I go into the Uniklinik tomorrow for the second 3-4 day chemo stay and will hopefully be home for Easter.

I’ve felt strong and surprisingly healthy over these last few days.  Diane and I took a walk on Sunday that turned into a 4.6 mile hike over the hills.  Various muscle groups that have been neglected these past three months lodged some complaints but overall it felt great and I know that, in many ways, I’m much healthier than when I was diagnosed.

Spring has sprung here in Kandern.  These are a few shots of a portion of the walk Diane and I made on Sunday (although I cheated and drove up the hill Monday morning to catch a few shots).  The photos are from the hill above our town from which, on particularly clear days, one can see both the Vosges Mountains in France and the Swiss Alps.

The Vosges in the murky distance

Cherry blossoms (Kirschbluten) and a pollinator

Cherry Lane - part of Sunday's walk

The Alpenblick (View of the Alps) bench

That's our town below and, on a clearer day, the distant horizon where the Alps show up from time to time.

Sunday morning I was able to slip into the balcony at church for the second tome since New Years.  The kids have departed to home, M-trips, and various other destinations so there is much empty space of which I can take advantage.  I didn’t quite sneak in and was spotted by the guest preacher of the day, Jeff Campbell.  He snuck up to that balcony during prayer time and asked if I’d be willing to say something at the appropriate time in the message – a message about why and when we cry out to God (in context of the Palm Sunday cries of “Hosannah!” remembered on this day).  The point  was invited to speak to was regarding those times we cry out in light of some overwhelming and painful circumstance like, in my case, a cancer diagnosis.

I think I must have looked to Jeff like the proverbial “deer in the headlights” while he was asking for this three or so minute response.  That’s because I felt like a deer in the headlights for a couple of reasons. 

One reason was not a fear of public speaking because, after so many years “up front”, I really don’t fear public speaking even the spontaneous sort that Jeff was asking for.  In fact, I sort of like it.

The reasons I took on the Bambi face were two-fold. 

One was out of concern for Jeff.  I know he knew where he was going to go in his sermon.  It had a textual basis and a plan to unfold some observation, encouragement and exhortation related to that text and the facts of our existence.  My concern centered on the question of possibly undermining what he planned to say.  I’ll give Jeff some credit here – to invite somebody to take a verbal part in the message you planned to preach without a clue as to what the invitee would say is, at best, a risky thing to do.  So my “living dangerously” award of the week goes to Jeff.

The second reason is a subset of the first.  Jeff was asking for a shout out from the position of someone who was/is hammered in pain by a tough circumstance and wants to just cry out, maybe with a clenched fist, maybe with a gesture of helplessness, to God.  The problem is that I haven’t, in the context of cancer, been there yet.  This is not meant to be any kind of boast in my super spiritual maturity/righteousness because I know I’m far from both (and. If I was either I would not, of course, be boasting).  Why haven’t I “been there” in this chapter of my life?

There are many reasons I think.  One is that I’ve been there before in other circumstances.  Probably the most defined and memorable place for this was also in a medical setting although I was not the patient.  My son was, as a three year old, in the pediatric ICU fighting for his life after a day in which his surgeon had literally massage his internal organs back to life.  In that “dark night of the soul” I had to cry out to God and surrender my son to His will.  Cancer, in my body, has nothing on that.

Another reason is my confidence in God as good and as the Potter.  All of what God does and allows is good at the time or turned to good in the grand redemption scheme of God.  If God is the Potter and I am the clay can I shake my fists at Him who shaped and is currently reshaping me?  This picture of the Potter is immensely comforting to me in this chapter of my life – it didn’t used to mean so much to me but, boy, has it come to pre-eminence now or what!

The third reason I feel like I haven’t “been there” in chapter of life called “Cancer” and what I was led to share on Sunday morning is this.  I realize that we’re all “dead men” and women walking.  We all live with broken lives and spirits.  We all start life spiritually dead (Ephesians 2).  We live in a broken and fallen world.  We all have immune systems that will not cope with the disease of being alive on planet earth somewhere between Eden and the New Earth.  Believers have not gained immunity to these things, they just get to cheat the finality of death because there champion went ahead and beat it for them.  That’s Easter.  The one who was immune to the brokenness of earth, to the brokenness of self allowed Himself to be broken for us and thereby took the sting from death.  The resurrection validates that.  That’s Easter!  And because I have a champion who gave up immunity to cover my lack of it, who am I to shake my fists at that?  I know it’s OK to vent.  I’ve read the Psalms, I get it.  But not this time because I’m the target of the affliction (long with friends and family that care so well).   But I’m the target of a much greater love.  That’s Easter.

So, thanks Jeff.  I kept it, against all odds, under three minutes!

It’s now a full house in the chemo lounge and the first song on this morning’s shuffle was from Danny Plett’s latest CD If Not For You.  The song is called For All Our Sorrow and I think it is apropos for this post (plus Danny led worship last Sunday – always a pleasure!).

For all our sorrow, for all our grief.

For every sadness and unbelief,

 For all our sickness, sin and pain,

You alone have borne our shame.

Chorus

You became our sorrow, you became our grief

And stole the victory from the Enemy

Then purified us from our sin and shame

Now healing freely flows in Jesus’ Name

For all our weeping, for every tear

For every heartbreak, for every fear,

For all our weaknesses and pride

You love us as you snow white bride.

For You became our sorrow, you became our grief

And stole the victory from the Enemy

And purified us from our sin and shame

Now healing freely flows in Jesus’ Name.

Now healing freely flows in Jesus’ Name.

Oh, by the way, that’s Easter too.