Cheap Medicine

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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My writing career started inauspiciously, which is to say it didn't start well. The essay was littered with misspellings, run-on sentences, a complete lack of punctuation, and very poor character and plot development. 

And when I say 'sentences,' I really should say 'sentence' because it consisted of just that - one single sentence.

At the ripe old age of seven, with pencil and paper in hand, I crafted my first paper with zeal:

"My mom likes to sowe and her name is Nancy and she likes to sleep a lot" 

My apologies to my mother for the aforementioned poor character development, which effectively portrayed you as a couch potato (apart from the occasional sowing/sewing). You were, in fact, anything but a couch potato because you were working like a dog, pulling down night shifts, working for the local newspaper. Which, by extension, meant you were sleeping during the day. But as a seven-year-old budding writer, who can afford to dedicate time and space to explaining such trivialities? So much pencil lead, so few lines. Something had to get sacrificed. Apparently I was learning to "kill my darlings" well before my time, even if that meant I killed all the darlings. 

Like I said, my writing career had an inauspicious start.

Despite such a start, however, I'd like to believe I've come along way since the days of yore. And regardless of said start, that small sun-bleached piece of paper still reflects the heartbeat of my life:

Words.

I started my first journal when I was in sixth grade. I still have it, in all its Lisa Frank and N*SYNC-loving glory. And I have every journal since then, volumes of them, chronicling 27 years of my life. At any given point, I'm likely mentally stewing on what to write about next. Musicians might compose entire songs in their heads, hearing melodies and harmonies, lyrics and lines. As a writer, I see words and phrases, trying to think through how to string them together in a way that is cohesive, powerful, and effective, even if those words never see the light of day.

In the coming months, I will take a lot of really expensive medicine.

But words? That's the real medicine, the good stuff with no side effects.

Those are what will actually keep me alive.

Ann Voskamp said in her book One Thousand Gifts, speaking of writing, "Because the picking up of a pen isn't painful and ink can be cheap medicine. And I just might live." 

The picking up of a pen (to be precise, black Pilot G2 premium gel roller pens, either 0.38 or 0.5 fine point) - or a pencil or a computer keyboard - isn't painful for me and ink is cheap medicine. 

That's a bottle of pills I'll gladly swallow any day.

And I just might live.

But here's the tricky part as a writer, especially if you bend more toward the reflective side like I do - you can write something, thinking it's for someone else, for some other intended audience, only to discover you yourself were the intended audience.

Two weeks before the bottom dropped out of my life, I submitted an article for consideration to Gospel-Centered Discipleship, a site I've written for a handful of times over the last 7-ish years. I had been mentally mulling over the piece for well over a year, with a sentence here and there taking shape, but the entire piece never seemed to get traction in my head. As a general rule of thumb, I have learned to live by the notion that the art of writing is largely the art of waiting. I've learned not to rush pieces. I can't crowd the words, otherwise it will inevitably come across to the reader. If it doesn't come together first in my head with any sort of cohesion, it will likely never make it to paper. 

But despite this piece rolling around in my head for such a considerable length of time and never really coming together, I couldn't shake it loose either. It's like I was haunted by it. I finally sat down in early January and started putting all the puzzle pieces together, deciding that waiting was actually working against me in this instance. 

I submitted the draft on January 20, two weeks before my diagnosis. The editor responded a few days later, saying, "Love it, let's publish, but I want to hold it until Easter." 

Fine by me, I said. 

That piece was released today.

And in light of my circumstances, I now read the words I wrote back then differently. 

I wrote of what it means to live a life of paradox, to live a life that reflects Christ. I wrote of what it means to be a kind of people who, when faced with opposition or hardship, set our faces like flint, all while not allowing our hearts to turn to stone, drawing on verses from Isaiah 50 and Ezekiel 37. 

My editor might have said we were holding the piece because of Easter. 

But I suspect if we pulled back the curtains of heaven, we would find that's not the real reason.

God, in his sovereignty, held this piece until now, as he knew I would need a dose of my own words. 

You might read the article and it might be of value to you (I hope that it is, and I hope that you do, in fact, share it with others), but you weren't the intended audience, not like I thought.

I was the intended audience. 

It turns out the past me was writing a letter to the future me.

The past me was writing to the future me, the me that would be walking around in this world with a cancer diagnosis that I didn't have when I first penned those words.

The past me was offering up words of wisdom to the future me.

The past me was offering up a bottle of cheap medicine to the future me.

I penned words I didn't know I would need.

I don’t want what I'm experiencing - all this upheaval and uncertainty and fear - to harden me, to turn my heart to stone, to embitter me. It would be so easy to grow hard in the face of suffering, to become calloused. I need the words I wrote back then to remind me of that now. I want to tell a better story instead, one that is willing to live within the tension of paradox. 

Donald Miller, in his book A Million Miles In A Thousand Years, wrote, 

We live in a world where bad stories are told, stories that teach us life doesn’t mean anything and that humanity has no great purpose.  It’s a good calling, then, to speak a better story.  How brightly a better story shines.  How easily the world looks to it in wonder.  How grateful we are to hear these stories, and how happy it makes us to repeat them.

The world is telling a lot of bad stories, teaching us that life doesn't mean anything. 

I want to speak a better story.

I want to speak a better story of a girl who set her face like flint, but did not set her heart like stone.

I want to speak a better story that shines brightly and is worth repeating.

And I will be able to do that only through the help of the Sovereign Lord - and cheap medicine. 

By faith, I'm believing that so long as God gives me breath, then he will also give me words. 

And I pray that will be the medicine, cheap as it may be, that keeps me alive - alive with a face like flint, but not a heart like stone.

If you know someone who could use some cheap medicine, feel free to send this post (or any post, for that matter) or the article to them. You can either link directly, or you can visit GCD's social media platforms on Facebook, Instagram, or X/Twitter, and re-share from the respective post.

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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.

The next few weeks between now and surgery are feeling a bit hectic and overwhelming at times, trying to get in final pre-op appointments, getting things in order for work, making the rounds with family and friends, and just dealing with the every day administrative necessities of life, all while I physically don't always feel great (or motivated). It's been a matter of taking things one at a time and being patient with my mind and body.

But the good news is, Flash held it together long enough for me to make it to Cincinnati to see Ben Rector and Cody Fry perform with the Cincinnati Pops earlier this week. My friend Jill and I are fans of both Ben and Cody - this was my eighth time seeing Ben in concert and Jill's seventh. And we even made his video on social media, given that we had front-row seats! (Lower right corner as the video pans, both of us unintentionally wearing all black.) I may or may not have cried when they performed this song. "Maybe the fear just means that I'm alive..." Gah. Just such brilliant musicians.

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PS: Want to leave a comment? If you select "Anonymous" and if you're comfortable, would you mind including at least your first name and last initial directly in the body of your comment? 

Time to Burn the Ship

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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The legend goes that when Spanish conquistador Hernan Cortes arrived in Mexico in the early 1500s, he ordered his men to burn the ships. As the leader, he wasn't going to give his men a way out, to second-guess their mission. They were moving forward no matter what. There would be no going back.

A couple weeks ago, I got a card in the mail from my friend, Venita (the same woman who inspired the naming of this blog over 15 years ago and introduced me to author Kate Bowler, with whom I am now obsessed). She offered up some encouraging words, and at the bottom she wrote:

You will make the right decision for you and once you do - burn the boat and don't look back.

With tears in my eyes, I put the card down, knowing deep down even then what I needed to do next.

I texted her and simply said, "The words I didn't know I needed to hear. Thank you."

Yet despite those words, I naturally did what anyone would do when contemplating the prospect of having her skull cut open and part of her brain removed, all while hoping she doesn't die in the process or shortly thereafter (ya know, no biggie): 

I procrastinated. 

I hemmed. 

I hawed. 

I swore.

I avoided.

I journaled.

I questioned.

I waffled.

I second-guessed.

I read.

I debated.

I cried.

I probably swore some more.  

I prayed.

I watched Hallmark. 

Everything I was reading in the research indicated that having surgery to remove as much of the tumor as safely as possible improved long-term outcomes. Both neurosurgeons that I got opinions from recommended it. 

Everything was pointing in the direction of surgery.

But really what I was hung up on was this lingering question, "But what if..."

But what if there's some piece of information out there that I don't have that would change the outcome of this decision, some piece of information that I come across later that makes me look back and think, "If only I had known then what I know now"?

But what if I go with one healthcare system, only to realize later I should have gone with the other?

But what if all these risks associated with the surgery actually happen?

But what if I choose wrong?

And in that wrestling, the Lord ever so gently revealed the flaw in my thinking:

I thought control rested in my hands.

I remember telling a friend when things first unfolded and I got the diagnosis, cancer in and of itself felt oddly underwhelming to me. I thought to myself, "People get cancer every day. This is not a novel part of the human experience. There's nothing new to see here. This is just life. We live in a broken world and I'm not exempt from suffering and pain. It just is and there's nothing I can do about it. I trust God is in control and it's all in his hands."

Because in my mind, I didn't get to vote on whether I got cancer. It happened. For whatever reason, it happened. Those first few weeks, I felt shockingly calm and at peace. It was like I was giving cancer a firm shoulder shrug and walking away saying, "Meh."

But then - but then - 

The conversations with medical providers took a sharp left toward the prospect and realities of surgery. 

And then my thinking changed. 

Then I bought the notion that things no longer rested in God's hands, but mine, and that somehow I could choose wrong. It was up to me to figure out how to navigate the minefield and make sure I came out on the other side of this mess alive.

I went from thinking God was in control to thinking I was in control.

As soon as that shift in thinking occurred, even subconsciously, my anxiety shifted with it.  The tighter I held onto the notion that I was in control, the higher my anxieties climbed. The two went hand in hand.

I was reading Kate Bowler's book No Cure For Being Human one night in the midst of all this processing. I got to a point in the story that made me close the book and have a good cry until I finally just fell asleep. She was contemplating the prospect of her own surgery (she was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer). A friend offered her these words, which, through the power of the pen and a sovereign God, were really words meant for me:

Here's something I do with my patients. I tell them to mark the date. You've made a decision based on all the information you have right now. Next week there might be a new treatment or a new setback and all the reasons why you chose this might seem obsolete. You could drive yourself crazy wondering What if or I should have...But right now, in this moment, you know that this is the best you can do with the information you have. You have to give the yourself the gift of saying, 'I couldn't have known...' This decision, like all decisions, must stand in time, for better or for worse.

So, decided to give myself the gift of saying 'I couldn't have known...,' acknowledged the fact that I wasn't in control but God was, and I marked the time.

Tuesday, March 19, 2024, at 11:44 am.

Time to burn the ship.

I called the neurosurgeon and informed him I would move forward with the surgery.

It's a decision that will stand in time, at a particular point, in a particular place, based on information I had at that time, not on information I will have in one month, two months, one year, or ten years.

There can be no going back. 

And there can be no looking back.

I have to trust that God is sovereign and in control. 

Not me. 

Otherwise, I will wear myself out. 

"Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?" (Matthew 6:26-27)

I don't possess the power to add a single hour to my life. 

Every second of my life is ordained by God.

Either I trust him with that truth or I don't. 

Wringing my hands out over the prospect of this surgery gets me nowhere. It literally is wasted energy and an exercise in futility. 

So, instead, I'm going to light a match, burn the ship, and not look back.

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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 guess, technically, I could just say 'See above,' but for those that want the nuts and bolts facts:

I have elected to maintain care and treatment through the healthcare system where I first went to the ER, who has been primary all along, rather than going with the local university. I felt they were well-matched systems, and I didn't see glaring discrepancies either in their recommendations or the level of care I would receive at either institution. That part of the decision making-process was one part gut, one part comparison of facts, and two parts freaking-make-a-decision-already. 

Surgery is scheduled for April 16. I will do a final round of MRIs on April 15 so that we have up-to-date imaging in preparation for surgery the next day. The neurosurgeon anticipates the surgery will last 2-4 hours and I will be in the hospital an equal number of days. 

As a precursor to those days, I am going to humbly request now on the front-end of anyone local: please don't come to the hospital to visit. Priority one will be my recovery and that's hard enough to do when there is a constant stream of medical providers (when I was in the hospital for the first go-round, the tally of providers landed at nearly fifty. 5-0. Fifty.), let alone a constant stream of visitors.

My plan is to have my brother serve as back-up communicator on the blog while I'm out of commission, but we make no guarantees on the frequency of updates. You'll just have to be good boys and girls and wait patiently. We'll do our best to push out information when we can.

I continue to be overwhelmed by the outpouring of encouragement and love from friends, family and colleagues. It really is humbling, and it has reduced me to snot and tears on more than one occasion. You'd think it's Christmas around here with the way care packages and cards are arriving in the mail. I have no doubt these next few weeks will be still be filled with moments of doubt and second-guessing. I'm human. But thoughtful texts, cards, and emails continue to bolster me, reminding me of the things I need to hear most. Thank you to those of you that have reached out. I'm so grateful for you. 💕

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

Pack Your Parachute

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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Let's start with the fact that I've had cancer for all of about five minutes (well, technically, I've had awareness of it for all of about five minutes, but it's actually been hanging around in my brain for a sneaky long time), relatively speaking, which makes me a total rookie when it comes to navigating the awkward social moments of breaking the news to people, some of whom I haven't seen in years and would consider mere acquaintances. But these are also people I know would genuinely care to know about all that has unfolded in my life as of late, so it becomes the $64,000 question: 

To disclose or not to disclose? 

I've discovered there's just no good way to take off from the conversational runway in such moments and there's just no good way to put the landing gear down either. 

Crash landings are the inevitable result. 

And apparently one does not get handed a parachute when leaving the hospital after a brain biopsy and a cancer diagnosis.  

I was out to dinner this past week with a friend, and as we were leaving the restaurant, I bumped into a woman I knew through Bible Study Fellowship. We'll call her JoJo for the sake of this conversation and to protect the unsuspecting innocent. I haven't been involved with BSF for several years, but when I was, I was on the leadership team, which was how I first met JoJo. She was also my mom's BSF small group leader at one point and I knew the two still kept in touch on occasion. She's a lovely woman and it felt important in the moment to let her know what all had transpired. JoJo was with a group of friends who went on ahead to their table, while my own friend waited patiently off to the side. 

We get to chatting, and I'm mentally trying to figure out how to basically give the I-have-cancer version of an elevator speech. 

It appears that task is far harder than one would imagine because it turns out my brain can't move that fast (when all else fails, I've decided to adopt a "Blame it on the brain mass!" strategy). I start fumbling through, talking somewhat rapidly, like I've just become incapable of forming coherent sentences or acting like a normal human being. 

"Well, so, this is going to be really heavy, but don't feel like you need to say anything, I know it gets weird and people don't know what to say, so it's totally fine..."

I'm gesturing with my hands and rambling. I'm cringing on the inside. 

At this point, her eyes are widening slightly, and I'm thinking to myself, "Just.get.to.the.freaking.point already. You're not a lawyer needing to offer up the fine print of disclaimers and caveats." 

A close equivalent to my own
facial expression post-crash landing

I could feel the tears coming and I finally say, "I have cancer."

And God bless the woman, she was so gracious and kind in the moment. She really was. She gives me a hug and offers some words of encouragement. We finish chatting and she rejoins her group.

Meanwhile.

I walk away, silently mouthing the words What the hell? and exercising enough self-control to not smack my palm to my forehead.

A few days later, I had a shot of redemption. 

This time around, I'm at the polling station to vote early, and a sweet teacher of mine from middle school is one of the poll workers. We offer each other the obligatory greetings and then she asks, "Well, how is everyone in your corner of the world?"

I pull the string on my metaphorical parachute before we barely get started and don't even make an attempt to deliver the I-have-cancer elevator speech.

I just smile and lie through my teeth, wanting to avoid a repeat of my first crash landing, "Oh, we're hanging in there, ya know." 

I take my ballot and head off to vote.

I mean, what am I going to say? 

"Welp, turns out I have a rare form of brain cancer. I'm literally one in a million. Can you even believe it?! But looks like this county coroner isn't going to elect himself, so I best be moving on down to the voting booth. You take care! Make good choices out there!"

I probably could have yelled over my shoulder for my good measure as I walked away, "And don't forget to pack your parachute!"

For the love of Pete.

It's not that I mind telling people or that people are aware of what's going on in my life. This whole thing is not some deep, dark secret. I mean, hello, I have this blog I'm using to broadcast the assorted unstable wanderings of my brain and body. I want to be sincere and authentic in my interactions with people, but sometimes it really is just not a good idea to unload on innocent, unsuspecting people in the moment, as these interactions are certainly no fault of theirs. 

If you have been one of those unsuspecting people here lately, my sincere apologies. 

Blame it on the brain mass. 

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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.

Yep, still over here contemplating next steps regarding surgery and all that. Much like my brain mass, I take my sweet time.

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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!

What Is Saving Your Life Right Now?

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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Author Barbara Brown Taylor tells of a time when she was asked to speak at an event and the host gave her this prompt for their conversation:

What is saving your life right now?

It's a worthy question. And for all you proper church-y people, it's not a question meant to provoke the Sunday school answer of "Jesus." Yes, we who are Christ-followers acknowledge that Jesus is the one who has saved - and is saving - our lives right now. But that's not what the question is getting at. It's a more nuanced, earthy question. 

What is the thing that is keeping you between the ditches? What is the thing causing you to pause in relief, reminding you that you might just make it through the day after all? What is the thing maybe breaking the dam of emotions you've been holding back and finally giving you permission to just let it all pour forth, all guts and glory, snot and tears?

What is saving your life right now?

I have a long list of things saving my life right now, none of which has to do with neuro-oncologists, neurosurgeons, research papers, hospitals, or medications. Yes, while those things are quite literally saving my life these days, there are plenty of things that don't come with prescription labels or have the title MD after their name that are saving me.

That #1 Top Banana Award from my friend Cheryl, with the inscription "The bestest of the best rare brain cancer person ever," that showed up in my mailbox and made me laugh out loud. (Turns out, yes, apparently you CAN get merit badges in some form as an adult!)

It's saving my life right now. 

The hilarious packaging on my new ROAD iD band. My sorority sister Kristina recommended the company and suggested it might be a good idea to get one. In my case, I specifically chose one that is a medical ID bracelet. There's nothing that can fully prepare you for the moment when you have to decide how you want to define the sum total of your health status in 20 characters or less. I'll take "Brain Cancer & Seizures" for $2,000, please, Alex? But I have been nothing but impressed with this company and their thoughtfulness. They produce a product that is in essence a fairly serious matter, but they have somehow found a way to thread the needle ever so carefully, marrying levity with sensitivity. (And if you want to get your own ROAD iD for any reason - medically-related or not - you can use this link for $10 off. #YoureWelcome. PS: Beware - I found the link didn't always work in the Safari browser.)

It's saving my life right now.

And that meme you sent me, Kristina, that said, "Really mad about how fast my life went from MySpace to MyChart," the one that made me laugh out loud all alone in the middle of the grocery store aisle like an idiot?

It's also saving my life right now.

The wit and honesty of Kate Bowler's book Everything Happens for a Reason and Other Lies I've Loved. She stuck the landing on this book. Like a breath of fresh air that I didn't know I was gasping for. I laughed. I cried. I read it in two days. (I'm also working on her other book No Cure for Being Human. I would love for her to be my new best friend. Thank you, Venita, for the recommendation.)

Her words are saving my life right now.

The steady stream of text messages and cards from friends and family. It's like Christmas in the mailbox these days. I love snail mail so much. It's a lost art form, handwritten cards, which makes me cherish all the more every card I get. But I still love the modern-day art form of texts and emails, so don't feel bad if you've been one of those people who have opted for modern over old-fashioned. I'm an equal opportunity lover of words, no matter what form they come in.

Those are saving my life right now.

The phone call to my financial advisor's office to sort out some logistics, and I break the news to his office manager, explaining the basics of what has transpired. I can hear the catch in her voice before she says, rather forcefully and with some conviction, "I'm so sorry. This just sucks so much." Her simple acknowledgement that this is a profoundly sucky situation without offering anything more?

It's saving my life right now.

That new song of Christy Nockels, a newly released remix of "Let It Be Jesus," the song that has been my anthem through all this? My friend Jill sent it to me while I walked laps around my parents' yard, trying to keep my body moving, forcing my brain to figure out how to coordinate things again. I shed a fair amount of tears as I listened, grief and hope all piling up at once within me. 

Yeah, it's saving my life right now, too.

The list could go on and on, because there is just so much that is saving me right now. For every breath of fresh air (figuratively and literally) and for every moment of levity, the moments of sadness, tears, and grief - those, too, are saving me right now. Because sometimes just acknowledging the weight of all that is broken in the world - whether in my own or someone else's - to truly lament, is saving me as much as laughter, memes, and Top Banana awards are.

Acknowledging that sometimes joy and grief are dance partners to the same song?

That's really what's saving my life right now.

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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.

This update will be short and sweet like the last one - I still haven't made final decisions on whether to pursue surgery, nor have I made a final decision about who I am ultimately going to tap as the lead on my care. Deciding who gets to crack open your skull, remove part of your brain, and then pump your body with a cocktail of drugs is apparently something you should ponder for more than 6.7 seconds. Go figure. It took me 7 months to finally decide to buy a couch, as one friend reminded, and you think I'm going to move very fast when it comes how to treat my cancer? I know I need to make decisions soon and I will likely set a self-imposed deadline for the near future, but for now, I keep reading research papers, going over notes, and just having a lot of long, hard conversations with Jesus about what comes next. My chief prayer for myself continues to be Ephesians 1:17-18: 

I keep asking that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the glorious Father, may give you the Spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know him better. I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in his holy people...

Yes, I want to know what to do about surgery and treatment and the countless other unknown details of my life, but I also just want to know him better in the midst. I want to know the hope to which he has called me. He has granted me discernment in the past on a thousand and one things; I trust he will do it again.

It is worth noting that today is the first day I did an actual workout since everything went sideways back on February 3. My body is still all sorts of dysregulated, but it was a start and it felt like a small victory. I know I need to keep my body moving, so I've tried to be diligent about at least walking every day, even if for only a few minutes.  

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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!

I Bought the Lie

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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Me and some ornery students in Kenya, 2012

I remember sitting quietly in Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi, Kenya, staring out the window at the tarmac, masses of people swirling around me, and all I could think was, "Just get me within the borders of the US and I will figure it out from there."

I was at the end of a two-and-a-half month stint in Kenya when the attack on US government facilities in Benghazi, Libya, happened on September 11, 2012. Yes, I was thousands of miles away from the actual attack, but a few days later, I ventured into Nairobi with some friends to visit a shopping area we often went to near the US embassy. I hesitated, wondering if it was worth the risk, but still we went. There was no mistaking the tight security. The tension was palpable as we moved about the city and everyone was on high alert, with people constantly looking over their shoulders, wondering if attacks on other US embassies - or other Americans - outside of Libya were yet to come. We made it safely back to the village and the next day I caught a flight home, one that had been scheduled well before Benghazi happened.

As I sat at the airport on September 16, 2012, itching to head home to the States, I could still feel the tension surrounding me, even on the geographic periphery of the attack, like a live wire was connecting Benghazi to all the other nooks and crannies of Africa. I had a live wire of my own running through the trenches in my brain (maybe Flash existed even then??), and I was eager to get on the plane and get home. I kept telling myself that if I could just get home to the soil of my own country, I would somehow be safer than sitting in East Africa. 

Just get me home, I thought.

But as I continued to stare out that airport window, gazing at all the planes and all the people coming and going, I had a startling realization:

Safety is an illusion.

Because you know what else happened while I was on that trip?

A man walked into a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado, on July 20, 2012, set off tear gas grenades and proceeded to shoot and kill 12 people and injure 70 others. 

I was no safer in the borders of the US, a seemingly "safe" place, than I was within the borders of Africa or Kenya, a seemingly "not safe" place. People were dying no matter whose soil I was on. I had adopted a false perception that somehow Africa was more dangerous than the US, but it was all just smoke and mirrors.

Safety was - and is - an illusion. 

I had bought the lie that somehow safety could be defined by specific borders, factors, or variables, and if I could just get everything to line up, then I'd be okay, free from harm. I had traveled overseas prior to that, had even been to Kenya previously in 2010 when they were voting on a new constitution and tensions were high, but it was that specific trip in 2012, book-ended by the shootings in Aurora and the attack in Benghazi, that I was confronted by the truth that I had made an idol out of safety and comfort, made an idol of a life free of risk and harm. 

And like scales falling from my eyes, I realized I had been duped.

I've thought about that moment in the Nairobi airport a lot in the last 24 hours. 

A lot.

Because I'm realizing I fell for the lie all over again, same as I did nearly 12 years ago.

Significant conversations with two different neurosurgeons have transpired in the last two days. The weight of the situation is catching up with me, slamming me emotionally, like waves finally breaking against the shore. I've cried more in the last 24 hours than I have in the last 24 days combined. 

I need to make a decision about whether to pursue surgery to remove part of my tumor, and when doctors start outlining the risks and realities, the possibilities and pitfalls of removing part of your brain, yeah, it all eventually starts to catch up with you.

I'm hearing the words coming out of the doctors' mouths. I'm taking notes. I'm processing. I'm weighing the pros and cons. I'm having hard conversations with my parents. I'm crying and then crying some more. I'm silently mouthing the words "What the hell?" more like 60 times a day here lately, rather than 30. 

But at the end of all those thoughts and all those conversations and all those silent utterances, I still find myself sitting in that airport back in Kenya, realizing afresh:

Safety is an illusion.

We don't live our lives in vacuums, in spaces where we can move through the world without being untouched by the world. Risk and danger are part and parcel of being a human in a world broken by sin, death, and destruction. 

None of us will make out completely unscathed.

This potential surgery carries significant risk if it goes bad and it carries significant benefit if it goes well. 

And no one has a crystal ball to tell me which way this thing is going to go.

I could overanalyze this thing into oblivion. I could let fear consume me. I could let the what ifs pull me under like a rip current, sweeping me out to the depths and sucking the air out of my lungs. 

But what I can't do is entirely eliminate risk from life.

It's not possible.

We in western culture - particularly in America - have propped up safety and comfort as the ultimate prize in life. If I could just have a pain-free, easy existence, we tell ourselves. 

But no matter how hard we try, no matter how carefully we orchestrate our health and our jobs and our kids and our spouses, we just can't seem to make it happen. Because guess what? I've spent my life dotting my i's and crossing my t's and here I am at 39, young and healthy, and cancer still happened.

Safety is an illusion.

And the sooner we come to grips with that truth and release the chokehold we have on our own hides, the sooner we can come to a place of acceptance. 

Amy Carmichael came to that place of acceptance. Carmichael was a missionary to India, rescuing hundreds of children from temple prostitution, but she spent the better part of twenty years bed-ridden from a fall. She would eventually pen these words, a poem titled "In Acceptance Lieth Peace":  

He said, ‘I will forget the dying faces;

The empty places,

They shall be filled again.

O voices moaning deep within me, cease.’

But vain the word; vain, vain:

Not in forgetting lieth peace.

He said, ‘I will crowd action upon action,

The strife of faction

Shall stir me and sustain;

O tears that drown the fire of manhood cease.’

But vain the word; vain, vain:

Not in endeavour lieth peace.

He said, ‘I will withdraw me and be quiet,

Why meddle in life’s riot?

Shut be my door to pain.

Desire, thou dost befool me, thou shalt cease.’

But vain the word; vain, vain:

Not in aloofness lieth peace.

He said, ‘I will submit; I am defeated.

God hath depleted

My life of its rich gain.

O futile murmurings, why will ye not cease?’

But vain the word; vain, vain:

Not in submission lieth peace.

He said, ‘I will accept the breaking sorrow

Which God tomorrow

Will to His son explain.’

Then did the turmoil deep within me cease.

Not vain the word, not vain;

For in acceptance lieth peace. 

I'm not saying I'm to that place of acceptance just yet. 

I still would like to shut the door to risk and pain.

But by the grace of God, may the turmoil within me cease. And by God's grace, may he bring me to a place of acceptance - acceptance of whatever his will may be for my life, come what may - and may his peace that surpasses all understanding be the rock on which I stand, not the illusion of safety. 

As CS Lewis wrote in his classic children's book, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, "Safe?" said Mr. Beaver ... 'Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you.”

Even God himself isn't safe.

But he's good.

He's the King, I tell you.

And that's no illusion.

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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'll be honest with you, there's not much I'm going to update you on right now because I'm on emotional overload. I'm at a place where I largely have the knowledge and practical information I need in order to make an informed decision - it's just a matter of making the decisions, both about which institution will be the lead on my care and about whether to pursue surgery. I'm not under the gun to make a decision by a certain deadline, but there's also no point in dilly-dallying around. What I need most of all right now is supernatural wisdom and revelation to make the decisions that are before me. There are no further appointments scheduled at this point unless I find I need to ask clarifying questions of any of the providers. It's now boiling down to simply making decisions and moving forward. I'm still holding on to Jesus but that doesn't mean the storm isn't raging all around me.

Again, I'm so grateful for all the words of encouragement and the text check-ins from friends and family, so thank you to those of you who continue to reach out and leave comments.  💕

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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!

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!