May This Cup Be Taken From Me

God, I take comfort in the fact that your own son pleaded with you to let suffering pass him by. I take comfort in the fact that we are allowed to vote no to our circumstances and verbalize that in our prayers to you. But where your Son and I differ is that he followed that plea with, "Yet not as I will, but as you will." I'm not there just yet. 

Going a little farther, [Jesus] fell with his face to the ground and prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will” (Matthew 26:39, NIV).

I'm all for the first part of that plea - please let this cup called cancer pass me by, I beg of you. However, you know that I am but flesh, made of dust (Psalm 103:14), and I'm still very much living in the pause between the supplication - "May this cup be taken from me" - and the submission - "Yet not as I will, but as you will." Give me the courage necessary to close the gap between the two. For reasons I may never understand this side of heaven, you have not allowed this cup to pass me by, just as you did not allow the cross to pass your own Son by because in your wisdom you knew it was vital to his mission and your purpose for him on Planet Earth, you must believe that cancer has a vital role to play in my mission and your purpose for me here on this broken planet. Give me eyes to see that mission and purpose. Help me to close the gap between the supplication and the submission so that one day, I can confidently say "Your will be done" and mean it. Amen.

The Hall of a Thousand Griefs

My friend Rebekah texted the other day, asking how I was doing. I texted back with this photo, saying life just feels like a hall of a thousand mirrors, one reflecting the other, ad infinitum, only in my instance, it's just grief reflecting grief, ad infinitum. I go to rehab and it just reflects back physical limitations. I look in the actual mirror and it reflects a shaved head and a line of 31 staples. (I get this round out next Tuesday and with no staples in my head, I wonder if I'll turn into Milton from the movie Office Space, asking if someone took my stapler. And yes, I'll be asking the nurse again if I get to keep any staples as souvenirs.) I get in the passenger seat of a car and it reflects back the fact that I can't drive. Reflections of grief everywhere. 

It's proving very difficult to not drown in grief and discouragement, to lift my gaze above all that used to be and now isn't. (My apologies to all you optimists out there, but my writing in the coming months will probably be all sorts of heavy and hard, possibly depressing, because that's my freaking life right now and I don't know how to get around that. I won't be offended if you opt out). Since getting home from the hospital on Monday, I keep experiencing what I call mini episodes, not full-on seizures, but my left arm will start tingling and go numb, then I'll lose motor control to the point I can't move individual fingers. My arm just goes limp. It usually lasts less than an hour and then I can move things again. It sucks, to put it mildly. All of everything sucks right now. I put a call into my neuro oncologist to discuss the symptoms and he ordered a blood draw to assess my anti-seizure medication dosage. I have a follow-up appointment Monday morning. 

While not foolproof, what does seem to help mentally when the walls start closing in is listening to music. Like King Saul of old, the madness within is soothed only by music. I'm listening to a lot of Phil Wickham lately. I need the reminders of truth that these songs carry. Otherwise, I get swept away in the vortex of my own despair. 

Most moments, it's really hard to believe for the day when the hall of a thousand griefs will get shattered and I'll no longer be confronted by reflections that bear so much pain. 

So, in the meantime, I will need you all to be mirrors that reflect the truth of God's character and the hope of a better day.

PS: This post is so short because I am hell-bent on typing with two hands, which I did for the most part, but it took me nearly an hour.

 

Subscriber-only post

This post I originally sent the segment below via email only to those who subscribe to the email notifications, but then thought I should post regardless because I realize there are probably plenty of people who read the blog but aren't subscribed. I wouldn't want to deprive portions of my fan club, rogue though you may be. 😜

If I could give my left arm a Yelp review

There's no official blog post to accompany this email because, quite frankly, that just feels like too much effort. And given that I just had brain surgery a week ago, I think I'm allowed to shamelessly and unapologetically play that card. Although, if you have visited the blog, my bro did post updates, we just didn't send out corresponding notifications. I'm not going to relieve you of your duties just yet, though, bro, as I've got a lot of thoughts and a left arm that still hasn't gotten its $*&+ together just yet. (I'm typing all of this one-handed, while dictating some into a note in my phone and copying and pasting).

As noted on the blog, I made it through surgery and the doctors were very pleased with the outcome. The surgeon was able to remove more of the tumor than anticipated, as we thought it may be would not have very clearly defined edges, but apparently it did, which allowed him to much more easily remove the bad stuff. Immediately after surgery, while in recovery, I had a seizure. And then when I moved up to the ICU, I had another seizure. So the doctors doubled my dosage of anti-seizure medication, which I will remain on. I couldn’t even so much as wiggle my toes on my left foot when I came out of surgery or do much of anything with my left arm. I seemingly made rapid progress after that and quickly regained some motor control both of my left arm and left leg, but then had a bit of a setback over the weekend when I had a series of seizure-like episodes that stripped me of that progress. It was incredibly discouraging. I felt like I was being reminded constantly of everything I was losing. Occupational therapy came in for an evaluation, and there was the reminder yet again of what I couldn’t do. The physical therapist came in and there was the reminder yet again of what I couldn’t do. The speech therapist came in and there was a reminder yet again of what I couldn’t do. I just felt wave after wave of grief, confronted by loss every time I turned around.

I felt that grief yet again when we went to buzz my hair. Contrary to what we thought would happen, the surgeon did not shave all my hair. With my Dad as acting barber, we also buzzed the remainder of my hair over the weekend. Just call me Sinead.

I made progress again movement-wise and had no more seizures, so I was officially discharged Monday afternoon (good riddance IVs, beeping monitors, too-loose gowns, and wretchedly uncomfortable beds).

And thanks, mom, for proofing this before sending. It's one thing to look like an idiot via private texts. I'd rather not look like an idiot in a group email to the masses, brain tumor to blame or not.)

At one point, there was talk of me needing to go to intensive inpatient rehab, but I was able to improve enough, that I will do outpatient, PT, OT, and speech at a facility here in Columbus. So, there’s still a long road ahead of rehab. I keep thinking of the verses related to the right hand of God. Those verses became prayers often while I was in the hospital, that the mighty, strong and sovereign supernatural right hand of God would uphold the very weak left hand of my very human body.

“Now this I know: The Lord gives victory to his anointed. He answers him from his heavenly sanctuary with the victorious power of his right hand.” Psalm 20:6

PS: To anyone that I texted this past week, I apologize if my texts were complete gibberish. My comprehension early on really was not great and I was slightly horrified when I went back and reread text messages and realized what nonsense I was sending people. I told my aunt, it’s like I was drunk texting, only without alcohol.

I can’t thank everyone enough for their fervent prayers of intercession on my behalf. Don’t stop.
And for the record, the left arm would definitely get a one star yelp review. ️

Post-op Update #2

I was able to see Courtney yesterday for the first time since surgery! The surgeon is pleased with her progress so far and the images (MRI/CT) they see but Courtney is frustrated at the seemingly slow pace of her recovery. As the brain "settles down" (my phrase) from surgery and mass removal, strength and motor function ebb and flow. 

She'll be in for some intense physical therapy in the coming days and weeks, so please continue to lift her up and encourage her! Thank you again for your continued prayers!

- Josh 

PS - Unless there's some breaking news, hopefully the blog will stay quiet for potentially a few weeks as she works through physical therapy when maybe she'll feel like posting again or I can have her dictate a post to me that I can type out for her so you hear from her directly!

Surgery Update!

Hey everyone, just wanted to pass along the news that Courtney is out of surgery. The surgeon was quite pleased with the procedure and confident he was able to remove a significant portion of the mass on her brain. Courtney's still in recovery so we haven't seen her yet and it may take a few days for strength to return and confirm all motor functions are still available. Thank you for your continued prayers!

- Josh 

No One Has Ever Cared for Me Like Jesus

Doggone it.

As soon as I heard the first few notes, the tears started streaming uncontrollably down my face. I wanted to curl into a ball and descend into full-on ugly cry mode, but much to my consternation, that's a bit hard to do when you're encased in an MRI tube with a bracket strapped around your head and padding wedged all around so you don't move. So I held perfectly still while both lyrics and tears washed over me amid the thumping of the machine. 

"Out of the depths I cry to you / In darkest places I will call / Incline Your ear to me anew / And hear my cry for mercy Lord"

Shane & Shane have released nearly 40 albums during their career. Pandora has hundreds of their songs to choose from.

"Were You to count my sinful ways / How could I come before Your throne / Yet full forgiveness meets my gaze / I stand redeemed by grace alone"

And yet, of all those hundreds of songs, it is this one that played first.

"I will wait for You, I will wait for You / On Your word I will rely / I will wait for You, surely wait for You / Till my soul is satisfied"

If this moment feels like déjà vu, it should.

On February 3, when I had my first MRI and no one had yet put my name and the word 'cancer' together in the same sentence, the song "I Will Wait For You (Psalm 130)" by Shane & Shane was what played over the thumping of the machine.

Today, on April 15, when the word 'cancer' is now part of my family's daily vocabulary, and when I had another MRI this morning to map my tumor one final time before removing it, that same song played again. 

Same hospital.

Same machine.

Same tumor.

Same song.

Same tears.

Same God.

"So put Your hope in God alone / Take courage in His power to save / Completely and forever won / By Christ emerging from the grave"

Only the God who "is the same yesterday and today and forever" (Hebrews 13:8) would dare do so small a thing as to play one specific song at one specific moment in one specific place to remind me of his kindness and compassion toward me amid uncertainty and fear. No one has ever cared for me like Jesus. And in that moment this morning in the MRI machine, as seemingly insignificant as it might seem to outsiders, I was reminded of that fact. 

"Now He has come to make a way / And God Himself has paid the price / That all who trust in Him today / Find healing in His sacrifice / That all who trust in Him today / Find healing in His sacrifice"

All who trust in Him today will find healing in his sacrifice. My hope is that my body would find healing in the hands of a surgeon tomorrow and all the other doctors yet to come, but my heart and my soul have already found eternal healing through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ on the cross. By his wounds, I am healed (Isaiah 53:5), spiritually in a way that no earthly doctor or modern medicine could ever heal me physically.

"I will wait for You, I will wait for You / Through the storm and through the night / I will wait for You, surely wait for You / For Your love is my delight"

Tomorrow morning I will trust that God will whisper to my soul yet again, "Put your hope in me alone. Take courage in my power to save. Find healing in my sacrifice, for I have completely and forever won. And trust that I will with be you through the storm and through the night for I have heard your cry for mercy. Wait for me." 

_________________

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.

Well, here we are. I'm getting up with the roosters tomorrow so that I can have my skull cut open and bid Flash farewell. I keep replaying the scene from Argo in my head: "This is the best bad idea we have." Modern medicine has no doubt come a long way, and as a college friend noted, I'm "thankful we don't live in the time of leeches and blood-letting," but will we look back some day and wonder WTH we were doing cutting people's heads open? Probably. 

Surgery is at 7:30 am. We anticipate it lasting anywhere from two to four hours. A variety of variables will then determine how many nights I stay in the hospital.

As noted above, I had a fresh MRI scan this morning, which will help create a 3-D image of sorts of my brain so that the neurosurgeon knows where everything is. I also had a final pre-op appointment with the neurosurgeon himself. We went over both the basics and the details, some of which I had discussed with him before, but you can probably never hear these things too many times. 

Communication will be highly questionable in the coming days, so now it's your turn to wait.  😜

_________________

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'Twas (Almost) the Night Before Surgery

It's going to be essential I not lose my sense of humor through this rat's nest called cancer and life. I mean, I'm over here texting with a lady from my church about whether I'd be willing to wear a Gandalf wig or a hat shaped like a sloth to hide my soon-to-be-bald head. 

I suppose if you're going down (even if temporarily), you might as well do it with some flair. 

Enter ChatGPT, the wonder that is generative artificial intelligence. It only makes sense in my case, right? If you're a living, breathing human being with a brain tumor, why not recruit the assistance of a non-living, wicked smart artificial brain?

I've used ChatGPT on a few occasions for work, to help brainstorm some marketing ideas or synthesize data. It really is a jaw-dropping wonder to watch in action. Oh, for sure, there are all sorts of dark and scary to the whole idea of AI, but for the basic things I'm doing, it is hilariously helpful at times (also wildly inaccurate other times).

So, as I stare down the prospect of brain surgery in less than 48 hours, I thought I'd put ChatGPT to work for me, to add a little levity before the storm and provide free distracting entertainment.

I gave it the following simple prompt and nothing more. (And for those who are new to the scene, I nicknamed my tumor Flash early on, as a nod to the fact that it grew so terribly slow and in honor of the sloth from Zootopia):

Write a humorous poem about a girl named Courtney with a brain tumor nicknamed Flash being surgically removed.

Seconds later, this was the result:

In a town where giggles and glee were rife,

Lived a lass named Courtney, full of life.

But tucked within her, causing quite a fuss,

Was Flash, a tumor, mischievous and thus.

Flash played its pranks in Courtney's merry mind,

Turning thoughts topsy-turvy, leaving chaos behind.

But Courtney, undeterred, with a twinkle in her eyes,

Declared, "It's time, Flash, for your grand goodbyes!"

Off to the hospital, with courage so bold,

Courtney marched, her spirit unsold.

Surgeons assembled, with tools sharp and keen,

To evict Flash from its mischievous scene.

But Flash, oh Flash, was quite the trickster,

Ducking and dodging, a wily fixer.

Round and round, it led them astray,

A surgical ballet, an unconventional play.

Yet Courtney's resolve was steadfast and true,

With humor and pluck, she bid Flash adieu.

Snip! Snip! Snip! Went the surgeon's endeavor,

Till Flash's antics were foiled forever.

With a wink and a grin, Courtney awoke anew,

No more Flash antics, her skies now blue.

For in life's grand theater, with its twists and its turns,

Courtney emerged victorious, her spirit brightly burns.

So here's to Courtney, our hero so bright,

Who faced down Flash with all her might.

And to all who face challenges, big or small,

With laughter and courage, we conquer them all!

I don't know about the "courage so bold" or the "hero so bright" part, but it is, indeed, time for Flash's "grand goodbyes"!

___________________

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.

Well, it's almost go-time. Final imaging and pre-op appointment with the neurosurgeon tomorrow. I'll also get the official time for the surgery by tomorrow afternoon. I'll probably post one more time tomorrow evening, but then beyond that, I make no promises as to when I (or my brother, who is my back-up) will post again.

As mentioned previously, I humbly request of anyone local: please don't come to the hospital expecting to visit or see me. Priority one will be my recovery and that's hard enough to do when there is a constant stream of medical providers, let alone a constant stream of visitors. I'm going to need all the rest I can get, both in the hospital and once I first get home, but give me some time and I'll eventually surface. 

I continue to be overwhelmed by the people reaching out, saying they are praying for me. Words will never express how grateful I am, so I won't even try. 💕

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What Exactly Are We Praying For Here?

A friend of mine is fasting and praying for me in the ten days leading up to my surgery.

There's a Sunday school class in North Carolina pleading with God on my behalf. I've never been there and I don't know a soul in the class other than two darling people named Donnie and Pat.

A woman from my church is parking herself in the hospital lobby the morning of my surgery to pray for me.

A college friend, her husband, and four young kids, include me often in their nightly prayers.

A neighbor of my parents splits his year between Ohio and Florida. His church in Florida is praying for me.

I have extended family, some of whom I've never even met or, at the very least, haven't seen in decades, are regularly reaching out, sharing how they are praying for me.

The church I attend has close ties to a men's residential addiction recovery program. All these guys, many of them fighting their own fierce mental and physical battles, are faithfully praying for me.

I have friends in California, one of whom has been sorting out a very dark season of her own, who are on their knees in prayer for me.

Another friend frequents East Africa, doing mission work. He got home from one of his latest trips to Kampala, Uganda, and told me there's a ministry there who cares for street kids who don't have access to enough food. They are forced to fast certain days each week. On those days of fasting, with hungry bellies of their own, they are directing their prayers to God on my behalf. 

High school friends and college friends. 
Immediate family and extended family. 

Former co-workers and current co-workers.

Elementary teachers and middle school teachers.

Parents of friends and children of friends.

Street kids in Africa and men off the street in Columbus.

People I've met and people I've never met.

People I speak with every day and people I haven't spoken with in years.

Neighbors, pastors, churches, small groups, sorority sisters, people at the gym, contractors from work, friends of friends, and friends of friends of friends.

 

It seems from every nook and cranny of my life, from coast to coast and across continents, from every stage and every state I've ever lived, it seems as though there is nothing short of a small army standing in the gap on my behalf. It's almost bewildering to me to behold the range and sheer volume of people who are interceding on my behalf. But undoubtedly, I am so humbled by and so grateful for every single one of these humans.

But I'm always left wondering:

What exactly are we praying for in the midst of this mess called life and cancer?

Healing? Peace? Strength? Courage? Confidence? Hope? Miracles?

Are we praying for no complications? Are we praying for a speedy recovery? Are we praying for comfort and ease through it all?

Are we going through the motions, praying for things that just seem like standard operating procedures when we find out someone is ill or experiencing loss?

I would imagine most of our prayers are dedicated to healing, as they should be. A big, fat resounding yes to healing, peace, strength, courage, and miracles. 

And yet - and yet - 

I can't help but wonder if our prayers - my prayers - are short-sighted if they begin and end with requests for healing and miracles.

I can't help but wonder if there's more to the story than simply asking God, "Please, fix this and make all the bad stuff go away."

Because what if our prayers for such things as healing and peace - as vital and essential as they are - short-circuit the end goal?

Because the end goal is not merely that we skate through life pain-free. 

The end goal is more of Jesus.

What if ridding my brain of cancer doesn't get me more him? Then what? Congrats, I'm all better, but I have not come to know my Healer himself better? What if the real question is not so much do I have enough faith to be healed, but do I have enough faith to not be healed? Are we willing to pray those kind of prayers? Because what if our prayers for healing and miracles are prayers that lose sight of what matters most, namely knowing Jesus and making him known to others? Jesus himself paints a picture of this when he says to his disciples in Matthew 16:26, "What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?"

What if I gain all that I want in terms of physical healing, but forfeit knowing God and his beauty and holiness and glory? 

Back in January 2020, on the eve of a new decade, I found myself sitting in Mercedes-Benz Stadium in Atlanta, Georgia, alongside my niece and 65,000 other college students and adults. Christine Caine took the stage and delivered a message that still haunts my mind, particularly in recent days. You can catch the full talk on YouTube, but at the very least, I recommend watching minutes 41:17 through 44:12. She offered up a list of things she fears missing out on. But it's not the kind of FOMO most people would think of. It's the kind of FOMO that is unique to those who follow Christ, a FOMO that will not make sense to those who don't know him. She said she fears missing out on the following:

• Missing the good works that God has prepared for me (Ephesians 2:10)
• Missing out on eternal rewards (Revelation 22:12)
• Missing out on hearing well done good and faithful servant (Matthew 25:21)
• Missing out on crowns to cast at his feet (Revelation 4:10-11)
• Missing out on abundant life he came to give me (John 10:10)
• Missing out on his Presence with me in my pursuits (Exodust 33:15)
• Missing that he was with me and I did not know it (Genesis 28:16)
• Missing out on being ready when he returns (Matthew 24:44)
• Missing out on making his last commandment my first priority (Mark 16:15)
• Missing out on my time such as this (Esther 4:14)
• Missing out on becoming holy as he is holy (Hebrews 12:14)
• Missing out on what I am supposed to seek first (Matthew 6:33)
• Missing out on co-labouring with God (1 Corinthians 3:9)

I fear what Christine fears.

I have FOMO.

But it's a fear of missing out on things that will matter for all eternity, not just the things that matter here on earth.

As much as I am quaking in my boots at times about this upcoming surgery, thinking through the 800 ways it could go wrong (why am I not dwelling on all the ways it could go right? A post for another day...) there is this niggling sense within me, deep down, that I maybe fear more missing out on Jesus himself. 

I have often prayed over the years, at various times, in various circumstances, "God, I don't want more of this if it doesn't get me more of you." I don't want this dating relationship, I don't want this apartment, I don't want this house, I don't want this job, I don't want this ministry, I don't want this opportunity - I don't want any of it if it doesn't get me more if him. 

Author Randy Alcorn once said, "Heaven is a meaningless promise if Jesus is not there."

None of it matters - whether here on earth or there in heaven - one iota if Jesus is not in the midst.

So, am I willing to declare - I don't want anything to do with healing and being rid of cancer if it doesn't get me more of Jesus?

I want to be able to say that with confidence, but if I'm honest, I'm not there just yet. I waffle. I waver. I'm human. My flesh is weak. I would really love a pain-free existence. I would also really love for Pegasus (preferably black) to be real so that I could ride a flying horse.

But that's not life and that's not reality. 

Look, hear me on this - I'm not saying we shouldn't pray for healing. YES, PLEASE DO. Beat down the door of heaven until you lose strength. But healing cannot be the sum total of our prayers. There has to be more grit to what we are praying for in these circumstances. 

So, yes, pray for healing, miracles, courage, strength, hope, peace (and Pegasus for good measure). 

But what I really want you to pray for is that I would want the Healer more than the healing. 

Because healing is a meaningless promise if Jesus is not there.

And if he's not there, then I don't want it.

There are a handful of songs I have returned to often in recent days, all of which echo the idea discussed above, so if you are in need of an accompanying soundtrack, give these a listen.

• Just Want You, The Belonging Co featuring Sarah Reeves
• Miracle, Shane & Shane
• More Than Anything, Natalie Grant
• I Don't Want to Go, Avalon
• Give Me Jesus, Matt Stinton

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.

First, let's pause for some very important breaking news. If you've been following my story (and been paying close attention), then you've heard me mention my new favorite human being/author, Kate Bowler. I'm a big fan of old school handwritten thank you notes. So, I naturally sent Kate a personal thank you note a few weeks back, just expressing my gratitude for her words, explaining what a lifeline they had been for me. I didn't include my email, the blog, nothing. Just my return mailing address like normal on the envelope. I wasn't angling for anything; I just simply wanted her to know how much her words and her story meant to me.

I found a package sitting on my parents' kitchen table today, addressed to me. 

From Kate Bowler. 

Kate Bowler, people. KATE BOWLER.

I am regularly accused of being hard to read, having an exceptionally good poker face (depending on who you talk to), and generally being an expressionless human being. I'm not one to get too enthused about a lot of things in life, at least not in a demonstrative sort of way. Opening Christmas gifts on Christmas morning has always been an underwhelming experience to me, which my mother greatly laments.

I can assure you, I absolutely would have lost the poker game if there had been one when I opened this box.

Gah. I'm not one to fan-girl over such things, but I totally swooned over this surprise delivery from Kate. She included a note, some decals with quippy quotes, a hot/cold tumbler, and some toffee from a Chapel Hill-based chocolatier. I LOVED IT.

Second, onto more functional updates, which isn't a lot actually. I'm still working normal full-time hours and still trying to do what I normally would do if I didn't have cancer. I still watched the eclipse, but as stated above, one of those typical moments for me when I couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. "Well, that was nice." I'm still making connections with friends and still going to church (obviously, pending I find a willing Uber driver in the form of my parents or a friend. Not being able to drive really sucks sometimes, just for the record.) Life is still happening. It didn't come to a stop just because I got handed a diagnosis. 

I'll have a final round of imaging on Monday and a final pre-op appointment with the neurosurgeon immediately after. Come Tuesday, it's game time!

_________________

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On the Edge of What I Can't Escape

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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I went to the hospital earlier this week for a routine pre-op physical. I met with a variety of practitioners - medical assistant, nurse, pharmacist, doctor, and lab tech - and their job was to collectively determine whether my body is physically strong and healthy enough to endure the trauma and rigors of the upcoming surgery.

Here's my CliffsNotes of their conclusions:

"Congratulations! We think you’re healthy enough endure having the unhealthy parts of you removed. We obviously can’t guarantee or say with any sort of certainty to what degree your healthy parts will be able to function after said removal of unhealthy parts, but we’re fairly confident at the end of it all you will, at minimum, still have a pulse. We wish you all the best."

Well, ain't that a bowl of chicken soup for the soul.

Prior to those conclusions, though, I had to wait. The medical assistant came in first to check vitals. Then I waited a few for the pharmacist to go over my medications. He was in and out in fairly short order. But then I waited about twenty minutes for the nurse to go over my medical history. Then I waited maybe another ten minutes for the doc. He left and then I waited some more. Finally, the lab tech came in to draw my blood and sent me on my way.

And each time I waited in between, I felt like I was one step away from transforming into Captain Hook. If you're not familiar with the movie Hook, Captain Hook cannot bear the sound of a ticking clock. When he hears the sound, he might as well be the pirate version of Bruce Banner turning into the Hulk. There's one scene where he hears ticking and basically loses his marbles. 

I sympathize with the man.

The exam room I was in had the loudest ticking clock I have heard in quite some time. I heard with clear distinction the passing of every single second, like the room had its own heartbeat. If the doc was pulling out a stethoscope to listen to my heart beat, I was there to listen to the heartbeat of that room. It took everything in me to stay seated on that exam table because what I really wanted to do was rip that clock off the wall and chuck the batteries out the window. I'm assuming hospitals (or anyone, for that matter) don't appreciate such destruction of their property, so thanks to the restraint of the Holy Spirit and good manners, I refrained from vandalism. I turned neither into Hook or the Hulk.

But I can still hear that ticking clock in my mind because I also hear the same ticking clock over my life, ever so loudly, one second at a time passing by. 

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. 

And it is that metaphorical clock especially that I want to rip off the wall and chuck the batteries out the window, to silence the reminder of time passing.

But all the while the clock is ticking, I'm waiting. And I'm waiting on the edge of something I can't escape.
In JRR Tolkien's final book of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Return of the King, he captures a moment between one of the captains of the guard, Beregond, and Pippin, a hobbit. For you non-Lord of the Rings fans, these two are some of the good guys. (In the movie, the conversation is rewritten to be between Gandalf and Pippin.) In the battle for Middle Earth, the worst is yet to happen. The two are waiting on the eve of the siege of Gondor, one of the last strongholds for the good guys. Pippin turns to Beregond and utters words I have mulled over countless times in the past two months, and I heard it in my mind while waiting in that exam room:

"I am no warrior at all and I dislike any thought of battle; but waiting on the edge of one that I can't escape is worst of all."

I am waiting on the edge of what I cannot escape. There are nine days between me and a drill being taken to my skull and a brain tumor being removed. Nine days between me and the possibility of losing everything.

Trust me, I feel the weight of that wait acutely. That waiting on the edge is worst of all.

But aren't we all waiting on the edge of something, whether for good or for ill? It's just that some of us are more aware of that waiting, that edge, than others. Due to life circumstances, some of us have ears tuned to the sound of that ticking clock. Being confronted by your own mortality will do that to you.

Hanging on my refrigerator is a quote from my all-time favorite sermon by any preacher I've ever heard. I can't tell you the number of times I've listened to it over the years, as it is now over a decade old. Louie Giglio, pastor of Passion City Church in Atlanta, preached the series during Advent in 2013, talking through what it means to wait on God, even in the darkest of seasons, using text from Exodus 13:17-21. He said, 

"You were created in the image of the Almighty God and you have a very brief window of time on Planet Earth, a very short opportunity, and in that window you have the chance to use your life to bring glory to God and to fall in love with Jesus. And here's the deal - if you get what you want when you want it, most often neither one of those things is going to happen. But in the waiting - that's where God gets glory, and in the waiting we learn that Jesus is really all we have and all we need."

In this waiting on the edge, I am having to learn yet again that Jesus is all I have and all I need. I am becoming very aware of just how short this window of opportunity on Planet Earth is. Like every other human being that's ever walked this planet, I have spiritual amnesia. I forget God's faithfulness, his kindness, his goodness, his mercy, his justice. I want the waiting to be over, and I want everything to work out just like I think it should. I somehow still want God to get glory and to fall in love with Jesus, but I want to do it without the uncertainty of waiting, without the problem of pain, without the discomfort of sitting in the unknown. 

But God - in his infinite wisdom - did not rig the world that way. Because he sees what I can't see. He knows what I don't know. As my former pastor used to say, "When you can't trace his hand, trust his heart." I can't allow the metaphorical clock over my life tick louder than the drumming heartbeat of God. Like the psalmists, I have to determine that I am waiting on God and God alone.

I'm not waiting for the outcome of surgery.

I'm not waiting for the effectiveness of chemo and radiation.

I'm not even waiting for a miracle.

I'm waiting for the Lord.

And by his grace and his mercy, I will find he is all I have - and all I need.

I'm not writing these words because I hold these words as firm convictions. Like the psalmist, these words are an exhortation for my own unsteady soul. As I heard a worship leader say years ago, "Sometimes we sing because we are sure, but sometimes we sing until we're sure." 

Sometimes I write because I'm sure, but sometimes I write until I am sure. It's usually the latter that is true most often.

So, I will keep telling myself, like the ticking of a clock, I will wait for you, Lord.

I will wait for you.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

I will wait for you.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

I will wait for you.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

I will wait for you.

And in my waiting, may God get the glory and may I fall more in love with Jesus.

Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord;

     Lord, hear my voice.

Let your ears be attentive

    to my cry for mercy.

If you, Lord, kept a record of sins,

    Lord, who could stand?

But with you there is forgiveness,

    so that we can, with reverence, serve you.

I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits,

    and in his word I put my hope.

I wait for the Lord

    more than watchmen wait for the morning,

    more than watchmen wait for the morning.

Israel, put your hope in the Lord,

    for with the Lord is unfailing love

    and with him is full redemption.

He himself will redeem Israel

    from all their sins. 

- Psalm 130

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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.

We're a little over a week from surgery. Some moments lately have felt like the walls are caving in mentally and other moments, I forget entirely I have cancer, even if fleetingly so. 

I started spending a few hours each day back at my own house - working, decompressing, regrouping, napping. It has proven vital to my mental health to have that space and privacy. I love my house and I miss it a lot, so it's been tremendously beneficial to be back in that space, even if for a few small chunks here and there.

It turns out I'm going to have to fire my hair stylist for the foreseeable future. I'm going to lose all my hair to surgery. That prospect has brought with it its own form of grief. As one friend commented, that's probably landing in such a tender spot because it's a "visual representation of the suck." Yes, so much suck right now. And now the suck will be on display for the world to see. 

I'll have a final set of MRIs early on April 15 and surgery then likely the morning of the 16th, but we won't know the official surgery time until the afternoon of the 15th. I will also have a final appointment with the neurosurgeon on the 15th. The surgery is expected to last 2-4 hours, and the goal is to remove as much of the tumor as we safely can without impairing anything. I will then be in the hospital 1-3 days, which I kind of marvel at. I want to be like, "You're going to cut out part of my skull, remove a large tumor, stitch me back together, and then potentially release me back into the wild after a one night stay?! Are you nuts?!" But such is modern medicine. And that's barring no complications. 

Like I mentioned previously, communication will be questionable in the days surrounding surgery, so I make no promises as to when I will be able to post updates for the good of the order. My brother has access to the blog if need be, but we're just going to have to wing it for a period of time, depending on how circumstances play out. Hang with me as we cross this next hurdle and then hit reset on another version of 'normal' life post-surgery.

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