I Know How the Story Ends

If you're just joining the party, I'd recommend reading my first post as a primer, which includes a few disclaimers and housekeeping items of note.
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Tomorrow will mark one month since my brain biopsy. 

It's amazing what can happen in a single moment, let alone an entire month. 

In the wee hours of the night immediately prior to the biopsy procedure, I drafted this text message that I sent to my immediate family later after I came out of anesthesia:

I don’t know what comes next but I do know this beyond a shadow of a doubt: 

Jesus is in my next. 

And that’s all I - or anyone else - needs to know. I put a stake in the ground a long time ago about what I believe to be true about God, and the presence or absence of suffering and bad things won’t change that. If all this gets me more of Jesus, then I’ll take it. For to me, to live is Christ and die is gain. He may choose to save me from the fire and this mass may vanish in a miracle. 

Or he may not. 

Either way, I get Jesus.

I still stand by those words.

I firmly believe that no matter what comes next, I get Jesus.

If it's life - even a life with suffering - I get Jesus.

If it's death - whether in five months or fifty years - I get Jesus.

Perhaps some of you reading this may find such conviction puzzling or bewildering. For some of you, God has been this somewhat nebulous, mysterious being of which you've never really been sure. For others of you, God has been your bitter enemy and you've declared yourself an atheist, because how could you possibly trust in a God who allows suffering and evil?

The answer to that question is far beyond the scope of what I can cover here, and there are brilliant, brilliant minds who have wrestled it out far more eloquently than I ever could (see also Timothy Keller's fabulously wise and rich book Walking With God Through Pain and Suffering). But I love Tish Harrison Warren's reflections on this very thing in her book Prayer in the Night, which is a favorite of mine and another book I highly recommend:

Christians have always known the reality of pain. They've lived through wars and plagues, without vaccines or modern medicine, when death was ever at the door, when suffering was rampant and unavoidable, when nights were horrifyingly dark. Yet, millions of the faithful have long held stubbornly to this antimony: God is good and powerful, and terrible things regularly happen in the world. The church has always known this paradox, but instead of resolving its tension, it has let it persist. We have left this chord humming in dissonance for thousands of years, always believing that it will only be resolved when God himself sounds the final consonant note.

You and I live in a world filled with dissonant notes, notes that ring harsh, hard, and hollow. 

My own dissonant note is that I have cancer and yet - and yet - I still believe God is faithful and good.

And I believe some day God himself will sound the final consonant note, the note that rings true, right, and harmoniously.

I know how this story - how my story - ends. 

It ends with Jesus. 

Can I tell you all the ways he is weaving and working all things together for my good? No, not totally, although I do feel like this past month has been filled with one watershed moment after another after another, with God flooding my heart and mind with a thousand and one ways he has preserved, protected, and planned every detail of my life. But I still only see and know in part (1 Corinthians 13:12).

I don't fully know what he's doing right here and right now in my life.

But I do know what he's done.

And what he has done is conquer death.

I know how this story - how my story - ends. 

I'm fighting a battle God has already won. 

My victory has been sealed, and death has lost its sting.

My story ends in victory.

And when I say "victory," I'm not saying a finite victory over cancer. That's a short-sighted view of "victory." Yes, the possibility exists that this cancer vanishes from my body through an act of God, but that's not what I'm looking to as my definition of success. 

No, there is a much deeper perspective of victory that colors the horizon line of my life.

It's a perspective rooted in the unseen and eternal, nestled in 2 Corinthians 4:16-18: 

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

There is an eternal glory waiting for me that far outweighs the temporal realities of a brain ravaged by cancer, part of my body that is quite literally wasting away.

So I fix my eyes on what is unseen - chiefly Jesus - rather than what is seen. 

I know how this story - how my story - ends. 

I get Jesus.

I echo Donald Miller in his book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years (if all else fails, I am always good for a book recommendation, and I also recommend this book), 

Do I still think there will be a day when all wrongs are made right, when our souls find the completion they are looking for? I do. But when all things are made right, it won’t be because of some preacher or snake-oil salesman or politician or writer making promises in his book.  I think, instead, this will be done by Jesus. And it will be at a wedding.  And there will be a feast.

The confidence and assurance I have about the story that is currently unfolding in my life is rooted in the belief that someday God will make all things right. 

And it will be at a wedding.

And there will be a feast. 

And I'm getting a front-row seat. 

"Then I heard what sounded like a great multitude, like the roar of rushing waters and like loud peals of thunder, shouting: 'Hallelujah! For our Lord God Almighty reigns. Let us rejoice and be glad and give him glory! For the wedding of the Lamb has come, and his bride has made herself ready'" (Revelation 19:6-7).

I know how this story - how my story - ends. 

Can you say the same?

If you can, it's going to be one helluva party in heaven, and I can't wait to celebrate with you.

But if you can't say the same, but have questions, come find me. 

I want you in heaven with me and Jesus at the feast, and I want you to be confident about how your own story ends. 

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Functional updates:

I'll try to carve out space in each post to provide updates on where I am in the process. So, if you're just here for the nuts and bolts, in the future you can slide straight here to the bottom and skip my idle wanderings above.

I spent a good chunk of today at the hospital, getting a functional MRI done and meeting again with the neuro oncologist. We compared the scans from a month ago to the ones today, and while some swelling has gone down, it turns out I still have a pretty large freaking mass in my brain. If you're not familiar with MRIs, a functional MRI differs from a traditional MRI in that during a functional MRI, you're given prompts and you have to perform certain tasks (and when I say "tasks," I'm talking things like wiggling my toes and tapping my fingers). MRIs track blood flow, so when I'm following a command, the imaging will light up, indicating where blood is flowing in my brain and which parts of my brain are working in order to accomplish that task. It helps create a topographical map of sorts of my brain essentially. 

In my instance, the fMRI clearly shows that my mass is situated in a part of my brain that controls both left leg and left arm movement. Why does this matter and what purpose does the fMRI serve? The fMRI is helping to inform the realities of surgery (and much farther down the line, the realities of targeted radiation). If I choose to pursue surgery (one of many things yet to be determined), we have to weigh the potential risk of permanent loss of mobility because of where my mass is specifically located within my brain. 

It does feel like it's been a bit hard to really get traction with what comes next - and that's nobody's fault - it's just the reality of the process. The doctor continues to reiterate that I need to take the time to really evaluate and assess all the options. Because this is not a higher grade glioma that is more aggressive, I have time on my side at the moment and I need to take advantage of that to really get the lay of the land. 

These are the main junctures yet to come, all of which are intertwined and not always linear, so it's going to take patience and supernatural wisdom to wade through each of these facets:

1. Making a decision about whether surgery will or will not happen. This would likely be an awake craniotomy to remove some of the mass, but not all.
2. Making a decision about which institution I will ultimately go with for my care and treatment. I'm still weighing options and there are additional consultations yet to be scheduled.
3. Making a decision specifically about which method of chemo to pursue. There are two primary treatment options to consider, and I have a lot of homework to do. Radiation will happen no matter what, but there is some variability within the chemo framework. 

My sleep has dramatically improved, and I'm mostly sleeping through the night now with no problems. I'm aiming to get back to a very basic workout routine in the near future (this is probably the longest I've gone without working out in at least six years and I feel myself going a little stir crazy), as I know I need to keep my body moving, for a whole host of reasons. My knee is still a little tender, but I think moving it more is helping to keep it limber. I went out to a local metro park this past weekend with a friend for a very leisurely stroll, and I think it was helpful to keep my knee moving. I'm still not looking to do jump squats anytime soon, but I do feel stronger with each day. I mean, I still want to Garfield my way through nap time, but that's nothing new.

I continue to be so grateful for the words of encouragement I get via text, email, comments, phone calls, and snail mail. As much as I love expressing words, I love receiving them, too. So, thank you to each and everyone of you who have reached out and showered me with words. They mean more to me than I will ever be able to fully express. 

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PS: Want to leave a comment? If you select "Anonymous," would you mind including your name directly in the body of your comment? That way I know who you are!