Cancer Journal #10 Jan 7

I haven’t said much about the Lord in these blogs. I will change that. 

         I suppose there are those who, upon getting a diagnosis of aggressive stage four cancer, would be disappointed and indignant. “How could He let this happen? Does He care? Is He even there?” I have not reacted that way, especially not since my recent good numbers but before that too. Let me explain. This is not the place where things are right. I’m expecting such a place but not yet. The rules of the game, so to speak, are that things go wrong. There are disappointments, unfulfilled hopes, wounds to our body and psyche. To complain about that is like complaining that there are 24, not 20, hours in a day. 

         Terrible things happen to people. In war zones, babies are killed in mother’s arms, parents are killed in front of five year old’s eyes. Terrible things happen in this country now, not so dramatic perhaps but creating a level of pain comparable to war zone events. My own life has been notably free of such pain. I’d feel a little churlish in telling someone to whom something awful has happened that that’s just the way it is. In fact, I wouldn’t. If asked, I would express wonderment that God could permit such a thing. But I wouldn’t mean it.

         The branch of theology that deals with this issue—how could an all-powerful and totally good God allow all manner of bad things to happen (it’s called theodicy) simply doesn’t stump me. My answer to all kill-shot examples that they could hit me with is that it will be better in heaven. 

        

         I was recently asked to speak at the funeral of a man who had gone through a lot of pain and disappointment in his life. I expressed admiration at his having soldiered on through all of that but then speculated that the process of healing and fixing he was going through now was so wonderful that perhaps he would be wishing that the wounds had been deeper and more painful because the making right was so, so good. I really don’t know that but I like the idea of it. 

         Now, what if this life is all there is. Well, all that I’ve written is off but so is the foundation of my life and much of what for me make things good and meaningful. I’m not about to accept that. 

         Two more things. Despite my diagnosis, I am pain-free and fully able to engage in the activities of daily living. That could change. I could be living with a lot of pain and be unable to get up to go to the bathroom. The yawning black abyss could be before my eyes. Would my tone change? I hope not but I suppose it could. If I’m still writing, you might detect self pity, a suggestion that I deserved to have been dealt a better hand. If I do that, I will be wrong. This is not the place where things are right. But that place is coming. 

         Finally, there is something so self-enclosed about our current life, such an impenetrable curtain between now and what lies beyond that it’s almost as though this really is all there is. To say to someone going through a painful time that this is not the place where things are right would be so insensitive and heartless that I just wouldn’t. I can say it to myself but not to others.