Cindy DeBoer

Prayer

Leaky Breasts and Other Hot Messes

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Recently, while at work at the psychiatric hospital, I caught a glimpse of myself in a patient’s bathroom mirror and noticed a large wet spot on my t-shirt just below my left breast. It was an odd location for a spill, but I chalked it up to my clumsiness and threw on a hoodie to conceal the spot. But minutes later, I felt wetness on my right side, too. I snuck away into the bathroom and peered under my sweatshirt. Sure enough, just like a breast-feeding mama who forget to put her nursing pads in place, I had two huge wet spots under both my breasts.

My heart picked up pace and I felt flushed. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Not only can I not even REMEMBER those breast-feeding days, my chemo-riddled body is decidedly void of hormones that might stimulate lactation.

Now, a psych hospital is a dizzying busy place that offers no time to “deal” with such a situation. I pressed on in my work and did my best to feign a “caring nurse.” Honestly, I didn’t care about anybody anymore – I just wanted to know why the heck my boobs were leaking! My t-shirt grew more and more soggy as my shift wore on. I secretly took my pulse, temperature, and blood pressure. All normal. I tried to convince myself I was fine. But as soon as I could steal a minute away, I Googled, “Why are my post-menopausal breasts leaking?” My heart sank as I discovered there’s no reason EVER that old ladies’ boobs should leak. Except cancer.

I don’t know how I made it through those 8 hours at work. I was certain I had cancer and I was certain this was the beginning of my end.

Once home, I shared me news with Paul and told him it had to be cancer. We shared a few somber moments of quiet fear. This wasn’t the first time I’d been certain of pending doom, but this time really did feel ominous.

This is my shirt when I got home from work.

I purposely procrastinated on calling my doctor the next morning. I wanted one last day of living without confirmation of cancer. Grief hung around my neck like a chain of bricks. I cancelled lunch with a friend. I lied to my daughter and said I didn’t have time to talk. I googled some more things which nudged me further off the cliff of despair. By nightfall, full-on hysteria had set in. All I could think of was all the things I’d miss by dying so young: my daughters getting married, meeting our future grandchildren, publishing my book, and family vacations and holidays. And – worst of all – I didn’t want to die before my sweet mother. She’s already lost one daughter way too soon, I didn’t want her to suffer like that again.

Totally exhausted from whipping through ALL five stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance – in less than 24 hours, I decided to decompress with a hot shower. While there, I looked down at my tired breasts and thought, “Man, they sure don’t look sick. It’s so weird that these two things that have served me so well, are going to be the death of me.”

And that’s when I received my shower epiphany. I suddenly wondered if these worn-out breasts weren’t to blame after all. As quickly as I could towel-dry, I ran downstairs to our laundry area and picked up the bra I had worn to work the night before. I grabbed a scissors and without any reserve of destroying a perfectly good $50 bra, I cut into that sucker and the “gentle padding” that lined the cups. My heart sank when the padding was only that: a “barely there” bit of thin foam. However, something prompted me to go full-on surgeon and rip into the center of the foam. Lo and behold – there, at the center of the padding was a little thin plastic case of nothing. It held NOTHING, because the SOMETHING it once held had already leaked out all over me and my t-shirt at work!

That stupid old bra of mine had probably been worn and washed so many times that the little silicone “enhancer” pads had basically cracked – bathing me in silicone juice.

Who thought this was a good idea to hide silicone pouches inside a piece of foam? Definitely a bra made by a dude.

So, it doesn’t look like I’ll be dying today, anyway.

Now, there’s two ways to process this leaky breast ordeal – either I’m an idiot OR… I’m just suffering from some form of PTSD like the rest of the world and will hastily jump to “the sky is falling” when there’s the slightest inkling something is off. I prefer to believe the latter.

It’s true though, isn’t it? Aren’t we all on edge? In no way am I suggesting this is akin to military-service PTSD. Not even close to the same thing. But it is feels to me that we, all humanity, is experiencing many of the symptoms that categorize PTSD. No one is sleeping anymore. When in public, our hearts stop at every loud “pop” or “bang” thinking we’ve just been shot because, well, there’s a good chance we have been. When people cough or sneeze into our personal space we wonder if we’ve caught the next deadly strain of COVID. We turn on the evening news with fear and trepidation wondering what terrible thing a leader has said or done, or what natural disaster has laid claim to unsuspecting regular people, or what new inciting incident will now add to our growing racial divide? It’s like we’re all expecting Freddy Kreuger to walk in on us at any given moment. Every day there is something, isn’t there? Something that adds to our unrest and builds our stress-level.

So how do we live peaceably in this world full of turmoil and conflict?

Oh friends, I’m not even talking to any of you anymore. I’m full-on talking to myself now.

I’ve got to take my own medicine. As a psychiatric nurse, I often give my patients advice on how to “wind down” when they are all “wound up.” My best tips include things like deep breathing exercises, reading scripture, go for a walk, talk to a trusted friend or family member, connect with nature, do something kind for someone else.

But my number one piece of advice to my troubled patients in these troubled times and which I’m currently desperate to receive is this:

GIVE YOURSELF GRACE.

It’s okay if we’re not okay. For now, it’s okay to acknowledge we are struggling.

It’s okay if tasks take a little longer than we’d like them to.

It’s okay if we’re forgetting things more often than we used to.

It’s normal if we’re not sleeping as well as before.

It’s okay if we’re not “sprinting” out of the fog, but instead feel more as if we’re crawling.

It’s okay if we feel our faith has been rattled. That’s standard fare for PTSD.

It’s perfectly fine, healthy, and good to be seeing a therapist and we need to put an end to any stigma associated with mental self-care here and now.

COMFORT FROM SCRIPTURE

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4: 6-7

Amidst such a tumultuous time in history, it’s not going to make sense when we find that peace, friends. It WILL surpass our own understanding as well as that of others. But, it’s that EXACT radical and unexplainable peace that is ours for the taking.  

I’m thinking I need this verse tattooed on my forearm or something. I certainly forgot all about it when my bra burst.

We’ve been through a lot, friends. Life has just been A LOT. And there really isn’t any sign on the horizon that things are going to get better this side of heaven. Our only hope going forward is to trust the promises of HE, THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN BE FULLY TRUSTED. 

A FINAL GIFT TO YOU

If I can leave you with just one positive thing today, let it be this: Put this song on your favorite listening app and play it over and over and over until it gets stuck in your head like Baby Shark or It’s a Small World:

Andrew Peterson’s:  Be Kind To Yourself.

And if you’re looking for a new tattoo, this part of the song, where Jesus is speaking, would make a good one:

You can’t expect to be perfect
It’s a fight you’ve gotta forfeit
You belong to me whatever you do
So lay down your weapon, darling
Take a deep breath
And believe that I love you

Do You and I Have Blood-Dripping Fangs?

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Paul and I have a Libyan friend who, despite growing up in nearly 100% Muslim Libya and being raised by a devout Muslim family, converted to Christianity as a young adult after learning about Jesus on Christian satellite radio. Our friend, whom I’ll call Mourad, (his life would literally be in jeopardy if his Christianity were revealed) shared with us his account of the first time he ever traveled outside of Libya.

Paris train station

Mourad had been invited to a Christian conference in France to share his experience of life as an “underground” Libyan Christian. He told us he was both thrilled and terrified to leave the comfort and safety of the only home, city, and country he had ever known. After successfully navigating the airport in Paris, Mourad stumbled his way around the city until he found the train station where he’d board a train to his final destination. With an hour to burn, Mourad eyed a coffee/food kiosk and decided to grab a bite to eat.

Concerned the barista wouldn’t understand his French (he had only used online tutorial sites for a few weeks now), Mourad practiced his order while waiting in line: “short black coffee” and a “croissant almondine.” He was so surprised when she understood him! But he was even more surprised when he understood the barista’s response when she brought him the two items, looked at his credit card and said, “I’m sorry. Cash only. Our card machine is broken.” Mourad panicked. He didn’t have any Euros – only Libyan dinars. His eyes darted around the train station hoping to find a hidden ATM. He saw none. He felt his cheeks redden and worried the growing line of people behind him were frustrated. He silently chastised himself for choosing to wear his Libyan jellaba which was a clear indication of his religious affiliation, not to mention his nationality. He was contemplating just walking away when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. Mourad described it this way:

“I turned around and here’s this tiny little lady – maybe 80 or 85 years old. She didn’t even reach my chest. She smelled like roses and coffee and her eyes sparkled when she talked. She smiled at me and said, ‘Let me pay for it. You appear to be new to France and I like to welcome new people. I’ll pay this time and maybe someday you can do the same for someone else.’ I thanked her but then told her I didn’t accept money from strangers. So, she extends her tiny worn hand to me and says, ‘Hi, I’m Elsa Benowitz. Now I am your friend. Now you can let me pay!’ Then she actually winked at me and told me to grab my food and have a good day!

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I was flabbergasted. I knew immediately she was a Jew. A name like Benowitz can only be Jewish. But as I looked at this sweet, tiny, generous woman before me, my mind pounded like a jackhammer. I couldn’t make any sense of it. My whole life I’d been told that Jews have blood-dripping fangs – that their blood-lust toward Muslims is so profound they will lunge at you. I was told their eyes are so full of evil, you can identify them simply by their glare. Muslims in Libya believe Jews have a certain smell – the smell of blood – and that when they meet Muslims, they will either spit at you, hurt you, or kill you. This sweet woman in front of me was the antithesis of all that. I’m sure she assumed I was Muslim, but she emanated kindness and love. She even shook my hand and paid for my lunch!

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I’m an educated young man. I’ve graduated from university, have a prestigious career and now I am a Christian. I know how to think logically and rationally and make sound deductions from evidence. I know how ridiculous it must sound that I believed Jews were ‘blood-thirsty pigs’ whose primary goal is to kill Muslims and eliminate the Islamic faith. I know now it is unfathomable that I truly believed Jews had fangs and wanted to suck our blood – but I did. For 25 years, that is all I had been told and I had every reason to believe it based on hearsay. I had never met a Jew. But in that moment, at that little coffee stand in a French train station, my world of beliefs came crashing down. I was forced to reconcile everything I’d been told to what I was seeing before me: a kind, compassionate human being.”

Mourad shared that story with us nearly 10 years after it occurred, yet he still choked back the tears as he recalled the moment his heart was forever changed toward Jewish people by simply encountering one elderly Jewish woman.

I think this story serves as a powerful reminder for those of us who strictly adhere to a narrative that we’ve only been told – something we’ve never questioned, explored, or researched. Sometimes, without even meaning to, we end up on a path that we did not choose but others put us on.

For way too long now, major news outlets – Fox News, CNN, MSNBC, all of them! – have been telling us what to think and believe about those who disagree with us. They spend more time telling us how “evil” the other side is than they do telling us the news. If you don’t believe me, take just 15 minutes during primetime to watch the channel that is opposite of what you usually watch. Within minutes, you will be cringing because the narrative insists “the other side” (which is talking about YOUR side) is hateful, deceitful, heartless, and selfish and whose goal is to destroy America and destroy “the other.” Sound familiar? Cable news may not be suggesting “the other side” has fangs and will suck your blood, but it’s not too far off.

Maybe – just maybe – we need to think (critically) for ourselves and draw our own informed conclusions about people, issues and problems and not listen to a group of people who make money from building a viewership.

When our kids were young, we always told them to think for themselves and to not decide how they felt about someone until after they’ve had personal experience. Kids are notorious for telling other kids how to think and act: “Don’t play with Susan. She’s mean.” “Don’t sign up for that teacher. She isn’t fair.” “You’re gonna hate that coach, he plays favorites.” We’d often remind our kids that the perceptions of others DO NOT HAVE TO BECOME YOURS. We would say, “Decide for yourself how you feel about these people.”

I bet you’ve told your kids the same thing.

“When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put aside childish things.” 1 Corinthians 13:11

So why do we find ourselves today conforming to a culture of hate and divisiveness based on what news sources are peddling? Even now as adults, we are listening to voices that insist they have the corner on the truth – these “kids” on the playground of life who are saying, “Listen to me! I know what you should feel and think!” I cannot imagine I’m making a revolutionary statement here, but I feel I need to say it: NO media outlet has the corner on truth. None.

I know this because of personal experiences that refute the narrative of hate that BOTH sides are trying to propagate. The only thing I can know FOR CERTAIN comes from what I’ve actually experienced. And in my experience, it has been unanimously true that whenever I have met someone who is unlike myself – whether that be in religion, politics, socioeconomic status, ethnicity, or sexuality – it altered my previous belief and feelings that had only been “handed” to me from someone else.

God became BIGGER to Mourad the day he saw Jews as actual image bearers of the one true God and I think the same awareness is available to all of us when we meet and engage with others who are not mirror images of ourselves.

May we all be a little more like Mourad.

Invisibly Dying – A Lament For Those With Chronic Illness

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Our ancient windows are no match for this stiff north wind.
Our curtains tremble – just like me.
Neighbors on both sides are sleeping. I know this for sure.

These urban homes practically touch – holding hands across shared driveways - making daily routines no secret.
But the rest of our quirky neighborhood will keep me company until about 3:30 a.m.
At which time even the college students sleep.

.

Not me.
Sleep is totally foreign to me – like Tajikistan or Uttar Pradesh – places I can’t even imagine.
Once again, I can’t breathe.
Is it the meds? Side effects? A lack of oxygen? Anxiety? COVID?
Tajikistan feels nearer to me than sleep.

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A serendipitous encounter at the grocery store
And an old friend says I look great – but I know she’s shocked by the bags under my eyes.
So am I. They’re alarmingly large.
Go ahead and stare at my grey eye-barnacles – perhaps I even want you to. Because I’m not okay and sometimes I wish it were more visible.

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I’ve given in to the fact I can’t keep up with the others.
Of course, I still WANT to run, and sing, and dance, and visit all the countries.
I WANT to clean my own house and cook my own damn meals.
I WANT to go back to work so we have more money to give away.
I WANT to go on every walk my dog thinks is necessary.

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Those of us invisibly dying wonder how to tell you.
We worry if we tell you how we’re really feeling you’ll judge us for being complain-y.
We worry if we don’t tell you how we’re really feeling you’ll assume we’re fine.
We worry you won’t believe us because our hair isn’t falling out.
We worry you’ll tell us what miracle treatment your neighbor’s cousin’s daughter sought for her own bizarre disease that is nothing like ours.
We worry you’ll weary of our weariness.

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So those of us invisibly dying pretend we’re fine.
It just works better that way.

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There’s a good chance my body isn’t dying as fast as my mind.
My body is made of tempered glass – thick and durable, but still, it’s glass and it has plenty of cracks.
My mind is also glass, but the thinnest, most delicate, tenuous kind that cracks with even a nasty look. It shatters easily and often.

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I tell myself to be strong.
I pray.
I ask God to make me strong.
I ask God to stop the insanity going on in my head.
I don’t know if he’s not listening or if this is just the best he can do, but I still feel insane.

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I worry that my faith is wavering.
I worry what Jesus thinks about wavering faith.
I worry this is depression.
I worry if I tell someone that, someone else will throw another medication at me, and dear God, for all that is sacred and good, please no more medication. PLEASE!
I worry that I’m not making the most of my limited days – HGTV, Longmire and Ted Lasso stealing days from Bible Studies, serving the poor, volunteering at school, and other wholesome things.
I worry that even if the pandemic doesn’t kill me, it’ll still have zapped all my emotional, spiritual, and intellectual energy anyway and I’ll be useless for whatever years I have left.

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If you’re invisibly dying, people just really want you to act normal.
Because if something’s invisible, we can choose if we want to believe it or not.
Like faith.
Like time.
Like Venmo.
Like COVID.
Like Jesus.

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I’m pretty sure I would not prefer to be visibly dying.
To those who are, my heart bleeds for you.
I don’t know which is worse - the flippant sympathy of others who can obviously see you’re dying or being treated normally when you’re not normal.

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But my lungs have holes in them and today I hear an audible wheeze that doesn’t even make sense to the doctors. And now I’m worried that this is the sound of oxygen leaking out when it should be going to my brain because nobody with a well-oxygenated brain would write such a sad diatribe. I regret it even as I write it.

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But I do sometimes act like a person with not enough oxygen to the brain.
I yell too easily.
And hurt people.
And forget things.
Like appointments -
And promises.
And ideas.
And that which I want to forget, I can’t.
I can’t forget the reoccurring dream where I'm not wearing a  shirt or bra in public and even though I plead with everyone in sight, no one has anything I can cover up with. 
The relevance of that dream to this post is not lost on me.

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I don’t care anyway. I’m invisibly dying.

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I want to be the strong Christian who writes lovely things about faith and courage and strength and the way God always swoops in and saves the day.
I want to be the one people remember as always positive and encouraging.
And now I worry that I’ve just blown that.

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Invisible is the worst thing to be.
I’d never choose it as my super power.
I’d choose flying for sure – so I could fly off to every country in the world and meet ALL the people from all the continents and learn all their languages, eat all their foods, study all their cultural practices and religions.

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How can I show you, oh loves, that I’m still me?
How can you know that as I invisibly slip from this failing shell, I still want to laugh?
How do I tell you I ache, without you feeling sorry for me?
How do I let you into my darkness without darkening your world?
How do I let your light in without letting my darkness seep out?
Will we ever get this right?
Will I exhaust all my relationships with my exhaustion?
Will I run out of energy to find peace and wholeness before my days run out?
Will there be an actual heaven waiting for me that will make sense of all of this?

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Will I be visible in heaven?

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The more I come to terms with dying invisibly
The more I’m sure I see my invisible God.
What I used to only see dimly – as if looking through a thick glass*
Is now starting to take shape – the slightest imagery of something I've always known but just couldn't see - now new and afresh. Real.
And I don’t hate it.

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Maybe today I seem visibly shaken.
Tomorrow, most likely, I’ll seem to have it all together again.
And that’s just how it goes when you’re invisibly dying.
*1 Corinthians 13:12

I AM OUT OF CONTROL

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When we lived in Morocco, every single day felt like a monumental challenge. It certainly wasn’t because of the people (they were incredibly kind, generous and welcoming). The challenge primarily came from being so out of place – so keenly aware we were foreigners and didn’t have much sense on how to navigate an alien nation. Simple things like retrieving cash from an ATM, adding minutes to our cell phones (no iphones there), getting groceries, visiting the orthodontist, buying underwear, paying bills, etc., etc. were all accomplished so differently from what we were used to they’d suck us dry of time, energy, and brain space. The language barrier also played a part (we often complained of headaches in the evening from speaking French all day long).

For example, we had to pay our utility bills in person in the nearby village. Payments had to be in cash, in an envelope, in the exact amount. If you forgot the envelope or needed even 10 dirhams back, they’d refuse the payment. If you couldn’t say your address clearly in either Arabic or French, they couldn’t process your payment. Some days the office was closed (for no apparent reason) so it was a crap shoot if you’d be able to make your payment or not. It was an enormous headache (quite different than having your bills electronically paid each month…)

Because life was so hard in Morocco, I was immediately stripped of cockiness and confidence. I quickly learned how incredibly incapable, insufficient, and dependent I was. I had NO CONTROL.

We had only been their a few weeks when I woke up one morning paralyzed by fear. I couldn’t imagine getting out of bed and facing the day – there was just so much unfamiliarity and overwhelming newness bombarding me each day, I was beyond exhausted and discouraged. I remember thinking, “I don’t even want to swing my legs over the side of this bed because when my feet hit the ground, there’s no turning back.” So I cried out to God and said, “I can’t do this without you, God. I can’t even let my feet hit the floor until I know you’ve got me completely covered. Help me, God. Help me.”

And every morning, for four years, before arising each morning, I said that little prayer. It’s the only way I dared to start the day. I could have never survived Morocco without that prayer.

Sadly, we had only been living back in Michigan for a few weeks when I realized I had ceased that morning practice. In America, it was just so easy to accomplish everything and I could do it all on my own. In America, I’m confident, self-sufficient, capable and energized. Simply getting money from the ATM is a no-brainer and I use NO brain space whatsoever. The same is true for the doctor’s office, grocery shopping, talking to the neighbors, and parent/teacher conferences. Life’s so simple, uncomplicated and easy back in America, it’s almost as if I don’t need a God anymore.

So it’s no wonder I stopped inviting God into my day before swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

Then came COVID-19.

I have a nasty debilitating, progressive and degenerative lung disease. I am in that “high-risk” group that those in the media treat as disposable by constantly reminding the public that the old and weak are going to make up the bulk of the dead, so the rest of the population need not worry so much.

But because of my lung disease, COVID-19 has given me a new wake-up call and once again reminded me how OUT OF CONTROL I really am. My life is not my own and I am at the mercy of a virus that not even the brightest minds in this entire world can explain or predict.

Every day I wonder if this is the day.

So I’ve returned to that morning practice that I should have never stopped. Before I even swing my legs over the side of the bed, I pray: “Okay, God, this day is yours. You alone know the pathway of an unseen virus. This is all in your hands and I MUST trust your sovereignty. Whether I live or die or am asked to simply sit here for another 12 weeks, give me peace. Whatever your will, Lord, I don’t want my feet to even hit the ground until I know you have me covered.”

And then I get out of bed. My feet hit the floor and I say, “Here we go, Cindy.” It’s weird, but I truly feel like no harm can befall me. Even if the COVID-19 finds me, I know that virus can never steal my joy. Am I afraid? You bet. But I KNOW that I am covered – and that covering makes all the difference.

Tell me, my friends, how are you covering yourselves in this unprecedented crisis? I’d love to hear all your innovative ways!

Lessons from the brain dead

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imagesI was absent from one of the most transformative events in my life. It happened to my husband while in Guatemala but left an indelible print on me and I’ve never been the same since.

Back in the day when we believed visiting Guatemala regularly would bring lasting change to the country, we often included orphanage visits as part of our “missions” week. (Anecdotally, our views on short term mission trips and their purpose and product have morphed significantly since those early days. For deeper probing, here are a few resources:  Relevant Magazine, The Poor Will be Glad and When Helping Hurts)

On this particular visit, Paul and his fellow well-intentioned travelers decided to stop at a new orphanage that was home for children with special needs. No one in the group could have anticipated what they were about to see.

He described the place to me as a small home made up of three adjoining rooms. The first and last rooms were filled with beds for the children – the middle room served as their dining room, lounge and play room. The place was lit too brightly by flickering overhead fluorescent lights and smelled of urine and vomit. The staff barely noticed yet another American “tourist” group stopping in; so with lack of direction, the group migrated to the playroom hoping to play with the kids.

Paul held back. He described some kind of supernatural power drawing him to the sleeping quarters made up of rows of beds and cribs.

He heard her before he saw her. Her shallow, slow breathing rattled and gurgled with every breath. Next, he smelled her. It was a hideous combination of bad breath, urine, and body odor. Although the crib was abnormally large, Paul expected to find an infant. It was, after all, a crib.

When he peered in, he was quite taken aback by the sight.

Her name was Corinna and she was 10 years old and that crib had been her whole world her entire life. She was born severely handicapped and has never walked, talked, fed herself or even sat upright. She stairs blankly to the left – always to the left because her head is stuck that way. Without provision of physical, recreational or occupational therapy to the residents their bones and muscles and brains just atrophy away day after day.

Corinna was not hooked up to any machine or life-assisting devices. She just existed. Her stiff and contorted body pained Paul to even look. But instead of pulling away, he felt compelled to lean in. He put his head right in front of hers. He stroked her hair, he talked to her, and he prayed for her.

She barely blinked.

A few days later back in Michigan, Paul recounted this experience to me: “Cindy, it was like there was no one there – she was so vacant. And yet, I felt the presence of God with her. All I could think was this: God loves this precious one. She has been bed-ridden her whole life, she has never said a word and never will. She, by all practical purposes, is brain dead. She can do absolutely nothing for herself. She can do absolutely nothing for others – to show appreciation, to show love, to enjoy life, or – especially – to secure her salvation. And yet, God still loves her as much as he loves anybody. God actually sent his son to DIE for Corinna – to give her this life that seems so unlived. God’s love just blew me away as I sat holding Corinna’s hand. The beauty of that moment made me weep with love for her and for what an amazing God we serve.”

              * * * * * * * * *

Paul and I tried to take a walk together today, but we had to stop frequently so I could catch my breath. I told him to just do the talking because I’m no longer able to walk and talk at the same time.

My medications are causing me more problems than I care to share. And I’d quit the whole lot of them if I didn’t believe in some weird medical-background-way they’re helping me live longer.

And with each tiny sign of deterioration I feel a little less whole, less human. A little less significant. A little less worthy.

And on my bad days I worry. I worry that I haven’t done enough. I worry that I haven’t said enough or shared enough with my kids. I worry that I didn’t accomplish much or do enough good. I worry that I’ll never finish my book and I’ll never have anything of significance to leave behind. I worry that within a generation or two people will forget me and that my life didn’t matter.

Then I worry that I worry about such stupid stuff.

But today I remembered Corinna. She who lay there in a crib for 10 years and never once actually “did” a single thing. Although she could barely move, she reminds me of how much God loves each and every one of us – his precious creation, made in HIS image – and that he would have died for us even if we were the only one.

I believe Jesus whispered in her ear every single day, “You are my beloved, Corinna. Of you, I am especially pleased.”

And I wonder how is it that I keep returning to my old patterns of fear and doubt and anger and resentment for my sucky lot in life – because, when I remember Corinna, I remember that I, too, am Jesus’ beloved, no matter what I am able to do or not do, say or not say, be or not be.

Yes, Jesus loves me. This I know.

On Dying Slowly

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One of the lowest, crappiest things well-intentioned people say to you when they find out you have a terminal illness is this: “Well, you know, we’re all dying really.”

Of course we are. Nobody believes these bodies will last forever. But sometimes it just stinks to be me because someone gave me a TIME LINE. I feel like I have an expiration date written on my forehead of which healthy people know nothing about. When we’re healthy (I still remember those days fondly) we don’t really think about dying. In fact, we live as if we’re immortal. While disease free, I’m not sure it’s even possible to wrap our minds around the fact that someday IT will happen to ME…

At least I didn’t. I was living like I’d live forever. Eating shit. Wasting time. Worrying about stupid stuff. Having petty fights. Chasing things. Praying only when life got hard.
These were all things I was going to work on, “Someday”.

“Someday” came crashing down hard on me when “Someone” gave me that lifetime-timeline with an “approximate” end-date. Of course, no one knows EXACTLY when that end-date will be. But, more than likely, my life will be truncated dramatically by this stupid disease.
 
HOWEVER….
 
(In any story worth telling, there should always be a big HOWEVER, right?)

HOWEVER…. With only a few years since my diagnosis and the subsequent slowing down of my life, I’ve learned about a million new things that I wouldn’t have known otherwise.
 

1) Dying slowly provides opportunities to do some life editing.

When people die suddenly (at least those who are past their prime) we humans like to console one another and say stupid stuff like: “Well, at least he didn’t have to suffer”, or “What a wonderful way to go –one moment on earth, the next moment with Jesus.”
I get why they say that stuff. Truth is, no one knows what to say to the dying or the grieving. We all just clamor for a few words and they always come out sounding stupid.

What I do know from my own experience is that when you find out your life may be cut short by an illness, but not immediately, you are left with a lot of time to think.
Some people, upon learning their days are numbered, might run out and get busy, busy, busy – doing all the things they’ve always wanted to do and seeing all the people they’ve ever known. Not me. I’ve SLOWED way down. I’m sleeping more (a holy activity, if you ask me), I’m praying more, watching nature more, sitting quietly on my porch and just thinking more, and doing LESS of the things that people generally ascribe importance to in their lives: work, entertainment, social engagements, etc.
Some days, every breath feels so incredibly holy that I just want to sit in silence and savor it. I want to thank God for every inhale and exhale and I don’t want to miss that opportunity by being busy. Dying has put God right in my face and being busy makes me feel like a shmuck because I can so easily ignore Him.

And so I think God gave me the opportunity to die slowly in order to ditch some baggage and edit my life down to a quieter, slower, better version of myself.
 

2) Dying slowly gave me new eyes to see things I’d previously overlook.

The tree outside my office window (the reclaimed crack-room) had small buds for leaves one day, and on the VERY NEXT DAY they grew an INCH! Yes, I measured!!! An INCH, my friends, in less than 24 hours!!! Do not tell me there is no God.
Squirrels can actually mate on the run. It’s true. I watch them do it on the regular from my little crack-room-office.

Whenever Yulisa is excited or has exciting news to share with me her right eyebrow pops up just a little higher than her left one. If her emotion is better described as happiness, then her eyebrows stay even.

There is a very disheveled man who meanders through the parking ramp of my downtown market every Tuesday and begs people for money. Only on Tuesdays. And he smells like homelessness and his shoes have holes in them. The first time I stopped, looked him in the eye, and told him I’d buy him some bread and apples, he looked directly back and me and said, “Thank-you. And Thank-you for noticing me.”
 

3) Dying slowly gives you time to say all the things you’ve meant to say, or should have said, or simply haven’t said well in the past, to all the people you love the most. 

I’ve got some work to do on this yet – but I’m glad I still have more time to do it. I’ve tried to reach out to all the people I knew I had hurt or at least fell short on my end of the relationship responsibilities and I’ve asked for forgiveness. I know there’s more out there, and I hope I can talk to them all eventually.

My sister Heidi had 13 months from diagnosis ‘til heaven – and she was very sick and battling fiercely the entire time. She was robbed of the chance to leave much of a written “love letter” for her family regarding their futures. I’m still mad at God for that. So I’m trying to write down all the things I’d most likely say to my kids when I’m in my 60’s, 70’s, 80’s – just in case I don’t see those decades. I also want to address my future sons-in-law and future grandchildren in case I never get to meet them.
 
 
I think if I spent a little more time on my porch quietly thinking I could expand this list to at least 25 things – because OF COURSE there are more than THREE things that dying slowly has taught me. But they say blogs should never be more than 1000 words…. Whoever “they” are must know that you, the reader, are losing interest right about now….

I’ll just say this: Dying sucks always. Dying immediately like my cousin Zac at 23 in a tragic car accident, or my friend’s father by heart attack, or the lady down the street who’s husband passed in his sleep leaving her with 10 kids – those situations suck WAY worse than mine. I have found some solace in dying slowly and I’m trying to make the most of it. 

Do not feel sorry for me. But instead, thank God for all the ways He uses evil in this world to draw others toward HIM!!! I am.