I can feel the coolness of the bars pressed against the sides of my forehead. I close my eyes and idly slide my hands down the metal, feeling the slightest prick of a weld gone wrong. I turn my back and slide to the floor, resting against the metal, tilting my head back. It's not so bad in here, I tell myself. There is that one little window, after all, with a little bit of light streaming in. I can still breathe. I can still feel the warmth of the sun on my face. Sometimes. I can still move around. Mostly. I don't go hungry. At least not every day. I'll get out. Eventually.
One rationalization after another. After another. After another.
This is the cage of lesser affections.
Of indifference.
Of apathy.
But these gilded bars are leaving me reaching for wider spaces and freedom, but I can’t figure out how to squeeze between them. If only there was someone on the outside with a key who could set me free.
_______________________
I feel the intensity of the crazy storm of cancer slackening (for now?) and it seems my affections for God are going with it. I feel my prayers drying up. My desire to spend time in his word vaporized awhile ago. I haven't been to church since May (However, in my defense, my mid-morning crash/fatigue comes at the same time church is going on. I'd be sleeping under the pew the whole time, leaving my pastor thinking he's the most boring preacher ever.)
It seems my affections for God are strongest when at the extremes, either when I'm raging against him, wrestling with him over things I don't understand, or the other extreme when I'm so desperate for his presence and need his comfort, hungering for his kindness and peace.
That space in between is where the lesser affections dwell, where we convince ourselves it's not so bad, that it's okay to turn our backs and just call a timeout on life. And God. The waters are seemingly calm, the pace easy. So, we start to loosen our grip. We explain away our comings and goings.
And all the while, we feel the indifference and apathy pressing in, the bars getting closer and closer together. We settle for the bits of sunlight and the occasional hunger pang. We decide those things are enough to get by in our walk with Christ.
Why?
Why does it take the tossing of the storm to keep us tucked close to God?
Why do we start coasting when it seems the waters are calm?
Why do we need the heat of the flames to stay pressed next to his presence?
Why does it take the crucible and the crisis to bend us toward the cross and Christ?
Because we are made of dust. God knows this. "...For he knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are dust" (Psalm 103:14). He's under no illusions about our sinfulness, our frailness, our weak knees, our feeble arms.
He knows we prefer the safety of the cage rather than the uncertainty of freedom. He knows we are fickle, feckless creatures. He's not surprised by my ineptness to follow him faithfully.
On my nightstand, there is a canvas, a painting I made probably over a decade ago. It's embossed with a quote from Lord of the Rings (For those who really care, the original quote comes from book Return of the King, but in the movies, it is scripted into The Two Towers.) It's from a scene where the king of Rohan's niece, Eowyn, encounters Aragorn, the king of Gondor. (They are all on the same side, so it's not a confrontation.) He asks her what she fears, and she says something that has resonated profoundly with me since the first time I saw the movie, "A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire."
Like Eowyn, I, too, fear staying behind bars. To let fear and apathy so take over my life that I settle into the cage, unaware of the prisoner I've become. When use and old age settle in, it's hard to rewind the clock, to go back in time and draw a sword against the indifference that unknowingly becomes so pervasive in our lives.
That's not how I want my story to end.
Thank God, though, there is one who holds the keys to my freedom, who knows the way out beyond the fear and apathy, the indifference and lesser affections.
His name is Jesus.
When the storm comes for me, he's walking on water toward me.
When the waters are calm, he's still near, patiently waiting.
When the heat from the flames start licking me, he's there with me in the fire.
When the crucible and crisis seem overwhelming, I can rest in the shadow of Christ and the cross.
I pray to God I do not spend the rest of my life trapped in the cage of lesser affections. (But neither do I want it to always take the extremes to turn toward him.)
I don't want the chance of doing great deeds to go beyond recall or desire.
I am a daughter of the King, a shield-maiden of his kingdom.
I do not think that will be my fate.
Because I know the one who holds the key to my cage.
______________________________
Functional updates:
Nearly done with cycle #2! It has been like night and day difference between the first 28-day cycle I had back in September to this one. I've had virtually no symptoms this time around. No nausea, no brain fog, no lethargy, etc. I still totally take a nap every day but I've been amazed at how much better I've been feeling. It was also six months this past week since the craniotomy. I get overwhelmed sometimes at realizing how far God has brought me in that time. Back in April, May, and June, it felt like hell on earth. Back then, I couldn't envision any days that didn't include grief, darkness, and sadness. Oh, me of little faith!
I'm so grateful to have more energy, especially as things heat up with my job heading into November. For those who don't know, I am a conference and event planner, and the conference I co-plan is every November. I have to be on my A-game right now. So, to pull a Hazel Grace Lancaster moment (from the movie The Fault in Our Stars), "I need my [body] to keep its sh-- together."
I meet with my neuro-oncologist this week for my monthly check-in where we review the latest and make decisions about any changes we need to make to the chemo dosages. In November sometime then (just not the week of the conference), I'll have my first scan to see how things have changed with the tumor since my baseline scan in August.
Prayer requests:
- Clarity of mind to do my job and to keep track of the many details I need to between now and the conference
- Continued absence of side effects and symptoms
- Progress toward independence again, being back in my own house, etc.
- Wisdom in how/where to spend my energy
- Renewed/increased affection for God, his word, his presence
