Jehovah Shammah

Chemo number eight is over and four more remain. Many people don't have a finish line laid so clearly before them.
I should be excited about that, I know.

Today I was able to blow dry and style my hair. Most people don't have any hair to brush at this point in treatment.
I should be grateful for that, I know.

So why do I find myself feeling numb instead of happy when the voices of loved ones celebrate that "there's only four more!"When did my heart change from a song of praise for each day I still have hair, to a frenzied assessment of whether I lost more today than yesterday? (I may or may not have a trash receptacle dedicated to measuring each week's lost and found strands). Where did fears of relapse and possible long-term chemo side-effects find an audience in my mind? How did that sly devil of doubt slither into the bed of my faith, messing up my freshly-laundered, tightly-tucked covers?

I should read my own blog and rest assured of His love, His presence, His healing, His provision.
I should be able to work longer, get up earlier, exercise harder (or at all), feel better sooner.
I should be praising louder, praying stronger, loving better.

But, it's time I stop "shoulding" all over myself.

The truth is that, even though I think I know who I should be, I am not that person. I often don't know who I am. Sometimes I even forget who He is. As I trudge along in this marathon, I am just as desperate for His presence and His reassurance as when I began. I found myself in a mini faith-crisis just this week as I questioned the role of the Holy Spirit in my life. I spent hours researching our faith history, curious to find out who or what is influencing my current thoughts and beliefs about God. Am I a cessationalist  or sensationalist? Am I charismatic, neo-charismatic, radical, reformed, or just wrong and weird? By the end I knew only that I didn't know. And I knew that I needed to hear from Jesus (cross-out cessationalist, then), because every theological quest I've ever begun has at its core a question of deep, personal significance. This week my question was simple, "God, do you still see me? Do you really speak to me? Do you love me?"

I finally turned to the old, weatherworn pages of my Bible (weatherworn because I left it in the rain, not as a result of some extreme scriptural devotion). I read about "Jehovah Shammah," the Lord who is there.

"Be strong and bold, have no fear or dread of them because it is the Lord, your God who is with you. He will not fail or forsake you." Deuteronomy 31:6


"...and remember, I am always with you, to the end of the age." Matthew 28:20


"...this is the Spirit of Truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him or knows him. You know him, because he abides with you and he will be in you." John 14:17


"...be content with what you have, for He has said, 'I will never leave you nor forsake you.'" Hebrews 13:5

Theology meets Theophany. The Word became Life and my belief became sight: He will never leave me nor forsake me! As those precious words have soaked in my heart this week, I've learned a little about who I am and who I am not. I am not loved for who I should be, but as I am. I am not loved because of who I am, but because of who He is. But most importantly, I am loved. Even though I wish this moment of clarity and  faith would carry me through until eternity, or at least the end of chemo, I have a feeling that when I wake up tomorrow morning I will need to hear it, believe it and see it once again. Jehovah Shammah will be there...which should help me stop "shoulding" so much.

Kendra and John chemo-sat for #8

The perfect place for a recovery weekend

Keeping Vigil

vig·il

   [vij-uhl] 

noun

1.

wakefulness maintained for any reason during the normal hours for sleeping.

2.

a watch or a period of watchful attention maintained at night or at other times: The nurse kept her vigil at the bedside ofthe dying man.

3.

a period of wakefulness from inability to sleep.

It seems it has been awhile since my last update, since the celebration of the first of what I hope to be many more "clean scans." Thanks for your ideas about how I might now approach my remaining chemo treatments (5 more!) Vacations, celebrations, songs and poetry are dreams now swimming in my head. Today, I thought I could share how one of those suggestions has transformed my dreaded Thursdays into times of beauty. 

Two different friends in two different spaces and places suggested to me the idea of "praying the hours". I was unfamiliar with this ancient concept and after studying it some the past few weeks, I have found myself appreciative and enriched by the heritage of saints, brothers and sisters that have shared in it. 

To explain, briefly and imperfectly, praying the hours is a way to recognize the sacredness in the hours of the day. It's a way to maintain a posture of worship. Sounds good, right?!? If aware, we can appreciate and mimic the progression of a sleepy-sunrise stumbling towards the midday sun. We can take a moment to pause in the middle of our work day and reconnect with our Creator. A deep sigh and sunset on our drive home slows us into evening, as we fall gracefully into an embrace of darkness, sleep, and silence....anticipating the sunrise of the next day. God's way of building worship into the simple experience of our day has been overwhelming me. 

The hour I've found myself most relating to is actually the hour dedicated for those who awake in the middle of the night. It's the hour of those who can't sleep. It's the hour for those who suffer. This is the hour of vigil, traditionally prayed in the middle of the night or early in the morning, meant to embrace the darkness, to stand firm in the silence with those who have lost the strength to stand.

Macrina Wiederkehr in Seven Sacred Pauses: Living mindfully through the hours of the day speaks this way of night vigils: 

"Rising from sleep in the heart of the night, I keep vigil with eternal questions....Holding vigil with the Guardian of Life, whose eye shines down upon all who live in terror of the night, I become quiet. In the middle of the night I hold hands with trust and surrender to the One who sees without a light....Like Jesus, keeping watch the night before he died, I keep watch with those who wait alone...I keep vigil with those whose tired hearts have lost hope. In the middle of the night I pray for those who sleep and those who cannot sleep. I pray for those with fearful hearts, for those whose courage is waning. I pray for those who lost vision of what could be. When I rise in the middle of the night, my prayer is simply one of waiting in silence, waiting in darkness, listening with love." (pg 29-31)

I may be drawn to this hour of meditation because those pesky hives and hot flashes keep waking me up every two hours. Being someone who typically enjoys uninterrupted sleep, these past few months have been...unusual. Anxiety-driven prayers for more sleep, wide-eyed staring at the ceiling for hours, and flip-flopping around the bed have proven unhelpful, so I changed my perception of these night awakenings. They are no longer annoyances but invitations. I'm no longer being inconvenienced, rather, invited to worship. Helplessness morphs into purpose as I take up arms with Jesus in the darkness, keeping vigil with Him, for those who also sit in darkness but feel like they are there all alone. No one should feel alone. 

Even though this started as a night-time prayer ritual, the flavor of these prayers has followed me into the day, especially on those chemo Thursdays where I find myself surrounded by people embracing suffering. I see some purpose in my chemo treatments because I now know I am fighting for them. 

Oh, but don't feel sorry for them. These friends of mine are warriors, too. Most are much more brave than myself. I want to tell them this. I want to shake their arms and look into their eyes and tell them how very brave they are, for driving to that chemo office again and again. I want them to see how humbled I am by their cancer scars, their years of uncertainty and fighting to survive for.....well, for kids or pets or just because they know nothing else but to fight. I want them to know they are seen, that their battles matter, that they are never alone. Their stories give me courage to walk into another treatment with my bag full of prayer shawls, crackers, cucumber-mint water, and earbuds. Their faces remind me of an unsettling reality: there is a battle with a long, dark night ahead, and I'm going to take the night watch. Well, not just me. The sweetest part of these vigils is the face of Jesus, who never stops standing vigil for us all. I'm just privileged to join him for whatever short time my weak flesh can stand to keep watch.

I thought maybe this idea would relate to more than just cancer survivors. I thought others who find themselves awake in the middle of the night with a crying baby, or working the night shift, or unable to quiet their mind from the worries of the day might find comfort in joining the vigil. There is purpose in the night. The darkness doesn't need to be scary, just find those of us keeping our light on in it. Most importantly, find the One whose heart is a constant vigil for you.

#6 Not punching him,
just excited to fight cancer.

#7 was a birthday celebration
with Hannah and Laura! 

Yum Yum knows how I feel after these Thursdays.