one woman's struggle to stay awake
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In the days before the flood, when every inclination of man was only evil continually, Noah built an ark.
Despite the violent, decadent culture around him, (in a labor that may have lasted 100 years and certainly seemed crazy to onlookers), Noah built the ark that God commanded him to build—and no one stopped him…and he had what he needed to complete it.
Early in the morning, I look out my window as I contend with this unruly adventure text. It’s at that fighting stage where it resists me as I wrestle it into its template.
Then a strange thing happens. Something wonderful, in fact.
Literally.
It fills me with wonder (and awe).
I see a neighbor in her blue nightgown outside with her dog on a leash. Even from this distance, I see her puffing fiercely on a cigarette, as if to draw life from it.
From past experience, I can safely assume that her head aches and stomach churns from the toxins she imbibed during yesterday’s happy hour. (For her, this morning hour would not be characterized as happy.)
She walks stiffly, haltingly.
What captures my attention and strikes me as remarkable is my reaction to her.
I feel tenderness.
Compassion.
Deep sadness knowing that He reaches out to her with abundant life and freedom, but—thus far—she recoils. Turns away. Seeks life where it will never be found.
She is “free” to drink and smoke and swear and yell at her family. “Free” to walk her dog and medicate to mask her distress.
I feel deep sadness for the choices she has made and the suffering that has resulted. And so I pray….
Clearly, it is His heart awakening me to her condition, His heart that breaks with tender compassion, His heart that loves her.
Wow.
“I will give them a new heart. Replace their heart of stone with a heart of flesh.”
(Ezekiel 11:19)
He can do that! I’m a witness.
And now, I wonder where this new heart will take me….
(Special thanks to Sebastian Fissore for the consuming image.)
Nothing can be known but that which God reveals. (I see this clearly as I study the philosophers.)
He has spoken through His Son and through His infallible Word, transmitted through fallible men. Despite man’s fallibility, God is able to preserve His message of love and rescue.
So, we will all give an account for how we have responded to Jesus when we stand (or lay prostrate) before Him.
God is fearsome in His holiness–yet abundant in His mercy toward the humble.
Those who reach for the scepter of forgiveness, extended during the crucifixion of His Son, have nothing to fear on the day of God’s wrath.
But those who reject His mercy (and essentially spit upon that cross) will stand on their own merits on Judgment Day—a fearsome proposition if ever there was one.
Imagine standing at the foot of Mount St. Helens during her 1980 eruption. Who wouldn’t be seized with terror—even given the assurance that no harm would befall them?
(And Mount St. Helens is merely a created thing, and that eruption less than a sneeze to the One who made it.)
Those who receive Jesus Christ in this life have received the assurance that no harm will befall them in the life to come.
But for those who reject the Son, no such assurance has been given. In fact, just the opposite has been promised. The fate of those who spurn His mercy will be permanently sealed on the Day of Accounting.
Reach for the One who loves you….
***
(Do you see a theme here…things burning and blowing up? I hope to lighten up a bit in a future post…maybe. I don’t mean to drive anyone away–but I believe this stuff. So how can I not share it?)
As I pour over words, gathering truth for Philosophy Adventure, I find myself returning to a profound statement made by a writer who notes a disparity between what many Christians say and what they do.
Although he denies the veracity of the Christian Bible, he makes an insightful observation that demonstrates he has, indeed, perceived the message of our Book. (Wait for it…)
He opens by describing how most people relate to death.
“Death is the last great taboo. We cannot look it in the face for fear of seeing the skull beneath the skin….[M]ost people want…to die quickly, painlessly and, as the saying goes, ‘without being a burden to anyone.’ What this last platitude conceals, I think, is the fact that people don’t want to be a burden because they ultimately don’t trust their children or their loved ones to care for them. Fear of death is a fear of feebleness in an infirm state, stuck in a degrading nursing home, ignored by embarrassed friends and busy, distant family members….
“A detailed national survey…claimed that fully 92 percent of Americans believe in God, 85 percent believe in heaven and 82 percent believe in miracles. But the deeper truth is that such religious belief, complete with a heavenly afterlife, brings believers little solace in relation to death. The only priesthood in which people really believe is the medical profession and…their sacramental drugs and technology….
“If proof were needed that many religious believers actually do not practice what they preach, then it can be found in the ignorance of religious teachings on death, particularly Christian teaching, which is why I have emphasized this in some of the entries of this book.
And emphasize he does, writing from a worldview that celebrates much that breaks the heart of God. For this reason I cannot recommend his book. And yet, he accurately assesses the focus of our faith with the following statement (here it is):
“Christianity is about nothing other than getting ready to die. It is a rigorous training for death, a kind of death in life that places little value on longevity. Christianity, in the hands of a Paul, an Augustine or a Luther, is a way of becoming reconciled to the brevity of human life….
More could and should be said on the topic. For instance, Christians do place value on longevity to the degree that it enables us to complete the work for which we have been created.
But, like all of creation, we inwardly groan and eagerly await the end to the insidious corruption that pervades this world…and we long for fulfillment of the promise that one day He will make all things new . (Let it be soon!)
What has the writer witnessed to provoke this sad commentary?
“Nothing is more inimical to most people who call themselves Christians than true Christianity. This is because they are actually leading desperate atheist lives bounded by a desire for longevity and a terror of annihilation.”
Critchley, Simon. The Book of Dead Philosophers, pp. 247-248
May it never be said of us. (Lord help us!) With transparent humility, let us confess a prayer He delights to answer: “Lord,I believe; help my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24)
What does it mean, for all of life to be a matter of “getting ready to die”?
Like a match ignited, let us fan into flame an awareness of our true purpose and impending appointment, and allow His perfect love to cast out all our fear.
Although muted by the blind’s wooden slats, enough natural light filters in through my bedroom window to sustain my vision as I read and reflect upon Hebrews 2:3.
“[H]ow shall we escape if we neglect such a great salvation?”
Salvation.
What does that really mean?
To be painfully honest, I empathize with the person who asks, “What’s so great about salvation?”
From the vantage point of the here and now, salvation is a pretty abstract concept. Understandably, then, it is hard to imagine salvation to be of greater worth than say…
Hearing a knock at my door. Hesitating. Expecting to see the sheriff and foreclosure crew hired to throw my family’s belongings onto the front lawn. Instead, seeing a messenger dispatched to announce that our mortgage has been paid in full.
Or:
Returning to the hospital room. Grieving. Preparing to comfort the precious four-year-old child suffering from a painful and fatal illness. Instead, the doctor arrives to announce this child has been completely and inexplicably healed.
Now those two scenarios describe a “great salvation”!
Salvation in the life to come is all good and well, but how does it relate to the clamor of challenges I face today?
I live in this life.
The sky is overcast. I pause to gaze outside at the morning stillness. Birdsong and a delicate breeze reach me through the open window…as the analogy gradually comes into focus.
Salvation is like this window. A source of light and fresh air. Vaguely appreciated. But not startling. Not precious. Merely present. Until…
…the house catches fire and I’m trapped in my bedroom with this window as my only way of escape.
Now, suddenly, this window is everything to me. It is life.
Salvation.
In reality, abstract though it may seem, my house is smoldering. Once it bursts into flames, I will instantly recognize the magnitude of this gift I’ve been offered.
And I will stagger at the thought that I could’ve neglected such a great salvation–and chosen a windowless room.
Cancer blew up more than a few idols in my life, including the idol of “The Ideal Marriage.”
Rubble strewn about me, I received a liberating gift…
The capacity to imagine myself in Roger Casey’s position back in August of 2000.
Although I’ve always been a hands-on father, suddenly I have non-stop and exclusive responsibility for my two little boys (both in diapers, neither able to feed himself unassisted).
It is one experience to ease into this routine; it is an entirely different experience to be thrust into it.
Add to that the pressure of wondering whether the time I must take to care for my family might cause me to lose the best job I’ve ever had.
And always, in the back of my mind, lurks a black hole–the crushing weight-of-possibility that I may lose my wife to death and be left to raise my motherless boys alone.
Of course, I suffer chronic insomnia…and on those rare nights when I am able to sleep I am awakened in the middle of the night by one of two little boys.
But regardless of my deep, deep exhaustion, the sun rises every day and brings a torrent of demands, including many from my wife. Some I can fulfill—such as cleaning and re-bandaging her wound. Others I cannot, as I have nothing left to give.
Most people feel compassion toward the mother of young children who faces the dilemma of meeting her husband’s needs after she has spent herself meeting the needs of his brood.
Why would I hesitate to extend grace and compassion to someone in my husband’s position?
For him, even help came at a great cost.
Although he is deeply grateful for people’s generous giving…receiving help grinds against the grain of Roger Casey’s upbringing. During times of crisis, it is more natural for him to isolate and prepare for survival than to expose himself and ask for help.
And, under the best of circumstances, he has limited relational energy.
Insomnia, stress, exhaustion. His reserves depleted. Still, he gave generously to his boys (to his deep credit, he tried to take them on an adventure nearly every day).
He related with friends and family, struggled to surrender fear of an uncertain future to his Lord…and then responded to his wife, who continually spoke of her painful condition which he has no power to change.
It’s a wonder that he held his tongue from speaking words he would later regret…
I’ve been taken to the mat, so I know, “Apart from Him, I can do nothing.”
For real. Nothing. At least, not one good thing that will last.
When He stokes up the fire and burns away all the dross, on that day, nothing I do apart from Him will remain. (And I will be glad.)
Will you pray for me? I’m facing a wonder-filled challenge, and I’ve learned that good things are powered by prayer.
For the next several weeks, I need to step away from exclusively telling the story of my cancer experience—and widen the lens to include what He (the One with whom I have “The Appointment”) has done or is doing in my life post-cancer crisis.
I’m amazed.
And I’m here to say, “There is life after trauma.”
In fact, my life has been so thoroughly enriched by the sobering experience of my own mortality, and by the experience of being so tenderly supported through our ordeal…I can honestly say I wouldn’t trade away the pain for any price.
Of course, it’s much easier to say that standing on this side of the story.
When I was in the cancer furnace, because I was in such physical pain, what I primarily said (every-hour-on-the-hour) was, “Take me now, take me now, take me now. I’m ready for heaven, get me outta here, take me now!”
Emotional pain can do that to me, too.
But He didn’t answer that prayer. And so He still has plans for me here.
There is no greater privilege in life than to fulfill His plans.
I hope you will walk with me as I try to do just that….
2011, May 21st
(In the quiet of early morning today, it occurred to me…)
We are paradoxical creatures: both fragile and resilient. Given a freewill none can override without our consent–yet susceptible to force and deception.
Events influence us.
We decide, but what unfolds around us…unfolds something within us.
We perceive–through a glass darkly–and exercise our will accordingly. And God, the Master of All Things, redeems everything–even our disappointment and suffering–to influence us for our good.
Still, we choose.
Do we interpret life through a lens of belief or unbelief? That, too, powerfully influences us…perhaps has the greatest influence of all.
1991
Sunday, September 29
I sit upon a driftwood log beside Roger Casey Farrell with an open Bible on my lap. I look up from my reading to admire an awe inspiring sunset on Lake Michigan’s horizon. Whitecaps scamper onto the beach. The rich scents of fresh fish and wet sand mingle in the air.
Somehow, for this moment, I know that God inhabited this world in the life and body of Jesus…
for love…
…because He loves me.
Although my will accepted this truth six months ago, suddenly, in this moment, my heart possesses it. I’m overwhelmed. Tears christen my cheeks.
Roger and I started this Sunday together at a church service. After the service, we returned to my house and Roger prepared brunch: French toast, my favorite, and the most interesting and delicious gourmet hash browns consisting of sweet potatoes, Idaho potatoes, and onions. Then he suggested we drive to the lake and rollerblade along the shore. We left my house in his black 1978 Trans Am and drove to his apartment to pick up his guitar.
At his apartment, I initiated a weighty discussion that could’ve easily derailed his plans. He listened patiently, responded tenderly, and ultimately steered me back into his car and brought us here.
Before we made our way to this beach, we donned rollerblades and skated about Sheridan Road. I thought I recognized my uncle’s neighborhood and, though Roger hadn’t planned on socializing, he supported me when I tried to find my uncle’s house. We skated by a man sitting on his porch. I stopped and asked to borrow his phone book. When we looked up my uncle’s address and discovered that his house was further away than I’d thought, I abandoned the search.
Now, as the autumn sunlight fades, I start to shiver. Roger Casey strums his Ovation guitar, obviously composing. It’s getting cooler, and I hate the cold, but, uncharacteristically, I decide to cope with my discomfort silently until he finishes. I feel privileged to be present while he creates.
“That’s it,” he announces. “Want to hear?”
Of course I do! This song has lyrics, and as I listen to him sing I suddenly realize that he is proposing to me. How I’ve ached for this moment. When the last chord rings out and fades into the music of wind and waves, he waits.
I’m so stunned I forget to answer.
Then he’s asking, and I’m saying “yes, yes, and a thousand times YES!!!” and blowing my nose, and we’re hugging, and he grabs a crumpled brown paper bag half-buried in the sand beside the driftwood and I cringe to see him stick his hand into the bag as I imagine a crab with pinchers lives inside or, worse, a moldy sandwich…but instead he pulls out a palm-sized dark blue velvet box that holds an engagement ring which he tells me he’s had since last weekend when, instead of proposing to me as he’d planned, he helped my sister move…and now it’s my engagement ring…and I’m laughing and crying and praising my God…
It’s been a perfect day.
Tonight when Roger practiced his guitar, he played a song that he wrote just after my first surgery. It’s an instrumental piece. Sweet; melancholy. It’s beautiful, really.
But sometimes it’s hard for me to hear. As music has the power to do, it takes me right back to that sick bed…
I see myself lying in our bed, desperately uncomfortable. There is a hole sliced above and to the right of my groin, directly into my bladder, out of which protrudes a catheter tube. The tube is looped and carefully taped to my thigh…before it continues down the side of the bed, into a collection bag on the floor.
My husband is composing a new song. Although he started writing it before my cancer diagnosis, its mood eerily echoes mine; it has become the soundtrack to this current drama of sadness and suffering.
Roger is in the bedroom frequently…close to me physically, but far from me otherwise. Once our boys are asleep, he comes to work in his studio, which consists of a computer, keyboard, mixing board, and other assorted equipment that lines the wall across from the foot of our bed.
When I was well, we often worked side-by-side on our individual creative projects with little interaction, and it seemed quite natural. It never bothered me. I counted it a privilege to be in the same space with him while he created. But now it is different.
I am so needy! And he is so distant.
What do I need?
I think I need: to be out of pain! Relief. Healing, which is something that only God and time may provide. Human compassion. I need my mommy! Someone to wipe the tears from my eyes, to hug me, to say, “I’m so sorry you are going through this.” Someone to notice me. Someone to ask, “Can I get you anything? Is there any way I can make you more comfortable?”
.
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