The Weapon of Battle is Prayer

I'm standing in a room, dimly lit.  Across the room, I see my husband Benjamin, walking through a door with no window.  He turns to look at me, smiles, then continues through.  A bright, comforting light briefly fills the room as the door closes behind him.  Just like that, he -- and the door -- are gone.  I am gripped by a sadness I cannot put to words.  My chest aches.

A moment later, another light fills the room, so I turn to look. It is similar to the light of the door Ben took, but not quite the same  - it lacks the warmth, the comfort.  To my side, there is a double entryway through which the light is streaming.  It's an unnatural light -- not quite daylight, not quite bulb light.  I cannot see the doors.  There's a distant murmur, sounding somewhat like people talking.  I walk that way, drawn by the light.

At the doorway I pause.  Just through the door is a table.  On the tabletop are Bibles and crosses.  As I step through the doorway I see someone who seems familiar running toward me, hands out for an embrace, face twisted into a strange smile.  As they arrive to embrace me, they turn into a strange mist.  I am enveloped by this mist.  It's warm and comforting for a moment -- like that feeling you get when you are cold and then sit in your warm car.  But, it becomes mildly uncomfortable.  It feels like humidity, like something you can't shake off.

The murmur is more distinct now.  There are people talking here.  I cannot quite make out words, but I can tell by tone of voice they are grumbling.  They are angry.  They are wailing in sadness.  Some shake their fists at the sky.  Beyond the people I see a wall.  It's opaque, but it's apparent that something is beyond the wall.  Whatever is beyond is indistinct and unreachable.  The wall has no door. 

I turn back to look at the door through which I came.  Over the top it says "Freedom."  I throw off the strange mist and step back through the door.  There's a strange resistance as the person who embraced me tries to pull me back toward the light.  Her allure is strong, but I resist it.  Back inside the room, I look back.  Above the door it says, "Bitterness."  The open door, the streaming light all beckon me.  It would be ridiculously easy to step through the door again.  The person has their arms out, ready for embrace.

As I examine the original room, I see another door.  It is a single entryway, and the door is closed.  Above the door is the word "Freedom."  I am in such pain, that freedom appeals.  I walk to the door.  It has no lock.  I put my hand on the handle and push.  There is a slight resistance, but after a small amount of effort the door opens.

Beyond the door, it is misty or foggy.  I cannot tell.  The light is dim, like a rising sun over a foggy night.  Of what little I can see, a narrow path of sand winds through a deep green grass.  There are flowers and trees off to the sides of the path, close enough to see, but not close enough to touch.  I can smell something sweet.  Overall, it's quiet.

Someone walks to me and wraps a blanket around my shoulders.  I hear a voice that says, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."  (Matthew 5:4)  I look into the face of my Savior.  In the midst of my mourning, my deep hurtful ache, I feel a moment of peace.

I try to take a step, but I feel heavy and burdened.  My back feels tired.  I don't think I can go on.  I hear the voice again that says, "take my yoke for my burden is light."  (Matthew 11:30)  Again, I feel a moment of peace.

My Savior takes a few steps ahead of me and pauses, looking back.  I take a moment to glance back toward the door through which I walked.  There is no table here.  The sign above the door says "The Wide Path".  (Matthew 7:13)  I can still see the bright light of the other entryway; I can still hear the murmur of voices.  It would be so very easy to go back.

I look back toward the sandy path.  My Savior is standing there, waiting patiently.  I take the two steps to stand beside my Savior.  It's still foggy, I am still aching in grief.  I feel a moment of peace.  My Savior says, "I said you would have troubles in this world, but I have overcome."  (John 16:33)

He waves His hands toward the sky, the fog clears for the moment to reveal a gorgeous mountainside.  The yellow sunshine bathes the mountain in bright, welcoming light.  My eyes follow the path from the mountaintop to the place where I currently stand.  It's rocky, rough, and steep.  I am barefoot and weary.  I cannot imagine walking the path.  I decide it's too much.  My Savior says, "I will never leave you nor forsake you."  (Deuteronomy 31:8)

Just ahead is a cistern with flowing water.  The sound is familiar and comforting.  We walk to it together quietly.  I am very thirsty, and my Savior gestures to the water, so I take a sip.  It's cool and refreshing.  My Savior says, "You will never thirst again."  (John 4:13-14)

As I stand at the cistern, I realize that my aching sorrow is still with me.  But, unlike the doorway of Bitterness, which beget more bitterness, I am feeling moments of peace within sorrow.  Peace feels good and satisfying.

This path is really hard.  The other path was easy. This path offers peace, the other path offers the company of bitterness heaped on bitterness.  I decide I want to chose the harder path, the path of peace.  I look at my Savior and say, "I am afraid."

My Savior says, "look at the birds of the air.  I care for them.  I will care for you."  (Matthew 6:26)

The mist returns.  I cannot see the path anymore, nor can I actually remember what it looked like.  I just remember that it was a hard path.  In faith, I take a step.  And, at my side, is my Savior.

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It is Sunday, 17 April, the year of our LORD 2016.  

You know, I wish I could say, "what a week!"  But, I cannot.  I had this "vision" on Friday morning.  As I lay in bed, struggling to force myself to rise to prepare for Ben's chemotherapy, I saw this in my mind's eye.   I rushed to the computer to write it down before I forgot it.  

Why would I have such a vision?  It's simple.  I have struggled against bitterness all week long.  Anger.  Resentment.  Frustration.  Confusion.

And each and every time I've had to give them over to the LORD.  I can't fight those feelings. They would be ridiculously easy to embrace. To wrap around my mind and soul like a ratty yet familiar old blanket.  They stand at my fingertips, beckoning me to them.  "Come," they say, "be angry."

I reject bitterness.  I don't want it.  Bitterness is like a strange food with a good taste at the start, and a terrible aftertaste that lingers forever.

I have tasted the goodness of the LORD (Psalm 34:8).  I have watched Him move in mighty ways.  I've seen things happen that can ONLY be Him.  I've felt His peace wash over me like a cool waterfall, rinsing away the dirt of the day.  I want the peace that only come from Him (Philippians 4:6-7).

But, I'm human.  Bitterness is an easy treat - well within reach and quite easy to swallow.  But, I don't want it.  Prayer is the power that chases it away.  My human nature tempts it back.  It's a battle waged only in prayer (Ephesians 6:12).

As I sit here tonight, typing this, a few things have changed.  Ben is now taking a stronger pain reliever, a prescription called hydrocodone, and he's still experiencing pain.  He had a Vectibix treatment on Friday morning, and I took a picture of the device they use to administer the drugs.  It's my opening picture today.

Whirrrr.  Whirrrr.  Whirrr.  I will not stop hearing that sound.  Well, actually, I will.  For nearly a year, I could *still* hear the sound of the machine in Ben's hospital room when he had his colon resection in August 2014.  I can't hear it anymore.  I won't hear these anymore either.  One day.

But, I'm still glad I had that day with Ben.  At one of our visits to the Cancer Center, Ben stopped to purchase a salad from the Healing Cup.  Another man was in line beside us.  He pointed at Ben and said, "I'm paying for that man's purchase with mine."  Sweet, blessed goodness.  

I'm not sure why I've shared this strange thing I saw while I lay half-awake, half-asleep.  It feels weird to post, but I'm posting.  If you are tasting the fruit of bitterness, I encourage you to examine the Scripture of the LORD of all creation instead.  Perhaps, that's why I post such strange things.  Someone, somewhere needs it.

So, LORD, I pray that if someone can use my words for their encouragement, strength, or as an antidote to bitterness, that they will accomplish Your task and Your will.  I'm just a child of the King.  My little words are are but a vapor.  Your word will endure forever.    Please touch the hurting heart of whomever is reading this tonight.  Bring healing to their hurt, and roll them up in such loving comfort that they cannot find the words to describe Your amazing presence.

I love You LORD.  I trust You.  I want to walk with You.  Please help me put on a shield against bitterness, and put on the peace that can only come from You.  I love You, LORD.  I love You.  <3

Ephesians 6:16 NASB
¹⁶ in addition to all, taking up the shield of faith with which you will be able to extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one.

A Trip of Prayers

It's Wednesday, April 6th of the year of our LORD 2016.  The day is cloudy and cool.  Ben feels decent enough that he's up and around.  We have the windows in the house open along with the back door, so a breeze is making it's way front to back in our house.  For supper is "homemade" pizza using pre-made pizza crust, pre-made jarred pizza sauce, and pre-cut pepperoni.  "Homemade" is a stretch, I suppose.

Our Tuesday began with unexpected van repairs to the tune of $422.  The front tires were frayed.  A belt on the engine was cracked in multiple places.  I was suddenly glad I arrived when they opened.  As I surveyed the tires with the service manager it dawned on me that this was now my task.  Ben couldn't pay attention to tires anymore.  Mental checklist enabled.  Perhaps a true written list is a better move.

The drive to Atlanta on Tuesday was long and tiring.  Ben was not up to driving, so I drove there and back -- around 3 hours each direction.  There were so many crazy drivers swapping lanes wildly, an 18 wheeler that tried to run us over, and a 10 car accident on the opposite of the interstate from us on I-285W, looking quite terrible.

Ben was relatively quiet so I spent much of the time on the drive silently talking to the LORD.  I'm not entirely certain of all the topics I touched on, but He remembers.  It felt good to just communicate with Him and lay all my distresses at His feet.  It always feels good to talk to the LORD.  It's the listening I must work on.

My talks makes me think of our children.  I recall how they'd come to us, tearful and heartbroken, because of a toy that was no longer working or was outright broken.  With big tearful eyes and a trusting heart, they'd hand to toy to myself or Ben.  Their sad eyes would plead, "fix it."  We'd gently take the item from them and examine the damage.  Sometimes, we could repair the toy, leading to elation. Sometimes we could not, leading to a child's sorrow.

So, we arrived at Emory just in time for the appointment for lab work.  Navigating to find a parking space, walking to find a correct building consumed frustratingly large amounts of time -- or so it felt -- such that Ben actually was in the lab 30 minutes after the appointment time.  Their setup was seemingly quite efficient, and we soon found ourselves sitting in the waiting room for the doctor.

Cue fear.

Fear, for me, is a curious thing.  It pounces on me unexpectedly, like a stalking animal.  It makes my heart pound, my stomach starts feeling upset, and I am unable to concentrate on anything beyond ... fear.  It leads to a ridiculous cycle of increasing fear.  The chaplain at the Cancer Center told me to focus on what exactly drives my fear and identify it.  I'm still working on that.

The doctor is a extremely patient man.  He is very obviously not in any hurry to leave, takes a seat comfortably in the examination room, and answers every question that Ben has thoroughly and with enthusiasm.  He's very passionate about the cancer trials at Emory, and about appropriate and correct information for Ben and I to use to make good decisions.

But he does confirm what the oncologist at the Cancer Center told us -- there is no cure.  This care is all about extending the time that's left without robbing that time of it's value.  And value is defined wildly differently by every patient.

The doctor does make treatment suggestions that can be performed at the Cancer Center at home.  He suggest an immunotherapy trial, stage I, at Emory that he feels is the best option -- but only if the cancer has a specific marker.  He also suggests checking UAB when Ben balks at numerous drives to Atlanta.  I don't care about the drive -- I'll drive to the moon if there's a cure for Ben there.  But driving saps Ben of precious energy.  I understand his reluctance.

We leave his office, one hour later, armed with more information.  Ben says to me, "I'm not sure about chasing treatments."

I knew he'd say that.  I understand what he means with that too, even if it's quite painful to hear.  Treatments make him feel rather poor. They destroy the intestinal system causing it to vacillate between diarrhea and constipation which then leads to excessive pain.  Treatments cause extreme fatigue, pain, and a general feeling of malaise.  What type of quality of life is lying in bed all day, miserable from symptoms?  It's a question I can't really answer.  It's only a question that Ben can answer - the man I love so very much, who's walking the walk.

I spend the entire trip home thinking of what it means and I start talking to the LORD again.  I tell Him I'm afraid, that I'm not sure what to do.  I tell Him that I don't quite understand, that I'm struggling with the destination of this journey.  I tell Him I love Him and I trust Him and that I need Him to water my mustard seed of faith, cause it's taking a beating.

Partway home, I stop at a rest stop somewhat west of Auburn just to walk and shake off the the mounting sleepiness of the long trip.  It's shortly after 8pm.  Ben and I are standing outside in the cool air, listening to the whir of vehicles on the interstate, admiring the stars and I suddenly feel a sense of peace.  I have this moment in time, this precious hand-holding whilst staring at distant points of light that the LORD calls by name (Isaiah 40:26).  I am going to remember this moment.  This moment is peace.  This moment is us, husband and wife, walking the toughest journey I've ever experienced.   And somehow I experience ... PEACE.

Isaiah 40:26 (NASB)

²⁶ Lift up your eyes on high
And see who has created these stars,
The One who leads forth their host by number,
He calls them all by name;
Because of the greatness of His might and the strength of His power,
Not one of them is missing.

Amazingly enough, I sleep well after we get home.  Not sure how, since my mind was a-whirl, but the LORD can calm the raging sea (Mark 4:35-41), and He can calm me too.

So, on Friday of this week, the 8th of April, Ben will see his regular oncologist.  He's thinking, praying, pondering what he's been told.  He's considering the genetic testing of the tumor, to see what markers it contains.  He's considering genetic counseling, in case our children need the information for their futures.  And he's considering the extra treatment option.

But, the final statement of the word of man is that the medicine of man cannot cure Ben.  We are simply buying time, precious time.

Going back to my story about our children and their broken toys, I think of the LORD.  I've come to His feet, my eyes looking to Him.  I've handed Him the object of my sorrow.  I don't know His answer yet, regarding the brokenness of my heart over Ben's condition, but I am going to trust Him.   Just as our children trust us in our imperfect parenting state, I am going to trust the perfect Father.  Don't get me wrong -- it's very hard.  But it's what I am going to *choose* to do.  I have chosen to follow Jesus.  No turning back.

As for prayers, Ben is visiting Social Security Thursday for disability evaluation.    On Friday, Ben will speak with the oncologist.  Please pray for these things to move forward smoothly, for us to hear and respond to the LORD's calling, and for us to accept the LORD's will in all these things.  Pray with thanksgiving, for the LORD is good (Philippians 4:6).

Philippians 4:6-7 (NASB)

⁶ Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.  ⁷ And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

*Graphic at beginning of page is from the website The Graphics Fairy.  All credit for the lovely image belongs to them.

The LORD is my Shepherd

I hung out a load of clothes today.

This activity is a strange thing.  I love it so much, yet I've only done it once since September 2014 when Ben received his Stage IV cancer diagnosis.  Before today, it's simply been beyond me to do it, such a simple task.

But, today was a day to hang out clothes. It was a day to reach into the past and pull an activity that screams "normal life" into the present.  It's gorgeous.  The sky is a beautiful blue, no clouds.  The air is cool but not cold, warm but not hot. In short, it's just a perfect day.

I watched the light breeze blow the towels gently.  I listened for birds but heard none. The hawk must be nearby.  He likes to hang out in the pine tree in our front yard.  I could hear children screaming, laughing, crying at the nearby private school.  Shadows still covered the clothes line, but the sun was peeking through the newly growing leaves of the trees.  The ground was damp.  And, nearby, was a rose in full bloom, a plant placed lovingly by my gardening son just for me, just to see while I hung clothes up.

So, it felt amazingly good to stand outside.  It felt like I had a breath of the normal that "once was but is no longer."  And I needed that breath.  Badly.

I've not blogged since November.  I think I mentioned I don't like blogging, mainly because I don't like talking about myself and my family.  But, I've blogged because the LORD seems to impress something on me and I give in and start typing.  If I have something to encourage someone, I mustn't keep it to myself.

This blog entry, though, is different from past entries.

Since January, we've been aware that Ben's CEA tumor marker is trending upward.  We didn't see the value every time we visited the Cancer Center, but when we did see it, we noted that it was, unfortunately, steadily rising.

In January, he tried Vectibix in conjunction with an antibiotic called Doxycycline.  Three doses in (around 6weeks), it because very obvious that Ben was reacting to something, and it was pretty severe. His hands all the way to his upper arms swelled enormously.  He was first taken off the Doxycycline, then the Vectibix.  The decision was made to return to full dose Folfiri following  a P.E.T. scan on February 23rd.

The scan confirmed what the CEA marker indicated -- the tumors were larger.  So, we proceeded with the Folfiri and Neulasta 3-day regimen, expecting that this chemotherapy would do like it had in the past -- reign in the growth while Ben recovered from the Vectibix.  After he recovered, he would try the Vectibix again at a 1/2 dose.

That was the plan.

But there is a reality.

On March 18, at a seemingly regular office visit, the oncologist delivered the news we'd been fearing we'd hear.   His CEA marker was almost back to his post-op value in September 2014.  It had nearly quadrupled from a low of 7 in January to a high of 26 on March 18.

In short, the chemotherapy is no longer working.

Ben's discussion with the oncologist took on a strange, surreal feel.  I couldn't contribute, or speak.  I just listened.  And in the end, Ben made his decision.

No more chemotherapy.

The number of bad days far outweighs the number of good days.  Out of every 14 day cycle, Ben might have 4 good days.  So, he chose to have more good days without chemotherapy, rather than have so many bad days with a therapy that's not providing him very much.

I never dreamed it would come to this, yet deep deep inside -- knowing that Ben's care has always been palliative instead of curative -- I knew this day would have to be faced.   

We are planning to seek a second opinion from Winship Cancer Institute at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia.  Our appointment is April 5th.  Ben is very stoic and pragmatic regarding the trip.  I am more hopeful and optimistic.  

So, where do we go from here?  In the time being, Ben is still using the Vectibix.  He's taking it alone -- which is not how it's intended to be administered -- because it might still be a ray of hope.  Or, it may be part of the human nature of "do something".

Outside of that, I'm treasuring moments.

I recall one day, long past, when I was sitting at the Cancer Center watching Ben sleep during a chemotherapy session.  I recall thinking how much I disliked being there, hearing the whirring of the machines, watching the bustle of the nurses.  And, in the midst of my pity party, I had a stunning thought.

"What if I look back on THIS day and wish I could be here?"

And I switched my attitude, starting being thankful for the machines, the medicines, the hectic movements of the facility.

How prophetic.

In the garden of Gethsemane, we see the LORD Jesus praying fervently to the LORD regarding the upcoming crucifixion.  He spoke to His Father, alone, three times.

³⁹ And He went a little beyond them, and fell on His face and prayed, saying, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; yet not as I will, but as You will.”  Matthew 26:39 NASB


⁴² He went away again a second time and prayed, saying, “My Father, if this cannot pass away unless I drink it, Your will be done.”  Matthew 26:42 NASB


⁴⁴ And He left them again, and went away and prayed a third time, saying the same thing once more.  Matthew 26:44 NASB

According to the commentary, Jesus was facing the "cup" of God's wrath.  He was seeking confirmation of God's will that this was the only way to bring salvation to all mankind.  (Reference)

As I try to imagine the setting, the pain, the sorrow, the plea, I come to a startling conclusion -- Jesus took on sin for all of mankind and, for whatever moment, God didn't look at that sin.  Such pain, to be separated, if only for a moment, from the presence of God.

Jesus knows sorrow.

He knows my pain right now.

This blog probably leaves more questions than answers.  How long does Ben have without treatment?  We don't know.  What will this journey look like? We don't know.  Will Winship at Emory have a treatment we've not tried?  We don't know.  

This is a journey on the path of life as placed by the LORD of all creation, on which there is just enough light for the step we are on.  And slowly, step-by-step, we walk along that path, trusting God's timing, God's provision, and seeking God's strength.  I know this -- I'm holding my Abba Father's hand.

That's what we do know.

We know that all things work together for good to those who love God and are called according to His purpose (Romans 8:28).  We know that God has a plan for us, not for calamity but for a future and a hope, and that when we pray, He will hear us.  (Jeremiah 29:11-13).  We know that God loves us so much, He sent Jesus so that we can believe and have an assurance of eternity (John 3:16). We know that God cares for the birds of the air, and that we are worth more than they (Matthew 6:26). 

Please don't take this blog in the sense that I have it together.  I don't.  I'm an emotional time-bomb.  But, when I lean all over God and His promises in the Bible, I find peace.  It flees under my human nature, but returns when I call out in tears.

I think it's been on my Facebook feed before, but I'll just reiterate it here -- you don't know how much you need Jesus until Jesus is all you have.  Jesus is all that stands between me and utter terror.  I think I'll stand with Jesus, no matter how hard the journey.

For those who have been praying, please continue your prayers.  I truly am unsure what exactly to pray for, but the Holy Spirit will intercede for us with groanings too deep for words (Romans 8:26).  He knows. God knows.

John 14:27  (NASB)
²⁷ Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Do not let your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful.

*Graphic at beginning of page is from the website The Graphics Fairy.  All credit for the lovely image belongs to them.