My last post-op

It didn't occur to me until later in the day the significance of the fact that, when I left my post-op yesterday morning, I didn't make another appointment. Because there wasn't need for another appointment. Because... I'M DONE.

Of course with cancer you're never really done. There are always follow-up appointments. I will still see someone every three months, and then every six months, and then just once a year. As I walked out of the office, I got that feeling like I had forgotten something, like something was missing. But no, nothing had been forgotten. I just don't need any more treatments.

Wow!

Later that day, I was in the grocery story, and heard the lady in front of me say, "Well, I got new boobs out of it, so I can't complain." I couldn't resist - I struck up a conversation with her. I said I had just had my very last post-op, two weeks out of my last surgery, and I'm feeling good. We swapped some stories, discovered we have the same doctor, then wished each other luck as we parted ways. Again I was left that feeling like I was looking for something that wasn't there. No appointments. No more surgeries. No more pathology. I'm done. I'm really done.

The post-op went well. I had no concerns, and didn't expect it to go badly, but it was better than expected. The PA came in first and took a look and said, "Wow, they are perfect. Good symmetry." She reminded me that I can't exercise yet (torture, as the days finally get more spring-like!), because too much bouncing could cause fluid collection. (Said another way, these gummi bears cannot yet be "bouncing here and there and everywhere...") I can't do anything that gets my blood rate up, for the same reason. This is true for 2-4 more weeks, she said. Argh!

Then Dr. Langstein came in. The first thing he said to me was, "You're a good public speaker." I haven't gotten around to writing a blog about this yet, but I spoke at a survivors event two days after surgery. It was a time to celebrate survivors and share stories, so I stood up there with a few other survivors and for about 8 minutes I talked about my journey with cancer and what my future looks like. Of course I cried through half of it, and so did several other people. I saw my dear husband wipe his eyes at least once - he said hearing the whole journey laid out like that was overwhelming! I did record this talk and plan to share it with you in the form of a slide show, but iPhoto was being persnickety so you'll have to wait. It was fun to speak at this event. I gave a couple shout outs to my congregations for being so loving and wonderful, and mentioned this blog. Several people approached me afterward to ask me about both (!). I saw many familiar faces, and all my doctors were there. We talked with Dr. Skinner and she said she had indeed come to see me after surgery, even tried to get me to wake up, but I was out of it. She made a face with tongue sticking out and eyes rolled back, and I asked if I really looked like that and she insisted I did... and that when she tried to wake me I pulled the sheets over my head. Sounds about right. (Michael laughed and told her I do that when he tries to wake me up, too!)

Anyway, back to my post-op. Dr. Langstein said, "I have studied public speaking, and you are a public speaker. You know how to make people feel." Quite a compliment! Then he, too, took a look at the "new girls" and immediately looked at the PA with a grin and said, "This is our best result!" She agreed. I said I was very pleased with the outcome, and he said, "I'm glad to hear that, because if you weren't pleased I would have to tell you this is the very best I can do." No worries there, I said! I told him about the love letter I wrote about them, and asked if he would like to hear it. He graciously suggested I get dressed first, then they both came back in and listened as I read it.

He was extremely touched. He said they have a book of things like this (positive testimonies), and asked if they could include it. We talked about what he does, what I called a ministry, and he reflected very honestly and humbly on it. He expressed his appreciation for my willingness to be external about my thought process through all this, and I told him how much I have appreciated having him on my team. It was really a lovely conversation. I am so grateful for that man, for his skill and his humility, his kindness and his compassion, his humor and the joy he brings to his work. Truly a gift.

So even though there is no next appointment at Dr. Langstein's office there is the tattoo to think about! The soonest I can do that is the end of July. Maybe Michael and I could get our tattoos as a first anniversary present (Aug 3)? We're both still deciding what we want to do - better get busy!

Sermon: Jesus on the broken road (May 4, 2014)

Easter 3A

May 4, 2014

Luke 24:13-35 (Road to Emmaus)

            I had the wonderful opportunity this week to serve as the chaplain for the Upstate New York Synod Candidacy Retreat. Candidacy is the process that prepares people for ordained or commissioned ministry in the ELCA. At these retreats, candidates come to meet with members of the candidacy committee, and after a few grueling sessions in which committee members ask the candidates often very difficult questions about their mental and emotional health, their faith journey, and the general state of their hearts as they prepare for a career serving the church, the committee decides whether or not to pass each candidate on to the next step of the process.

            As you can imagine, it is an often anxious and emotionally exhausting couple of days for everyone involved. So my job, as the chaplain, is to plan worship, and generally to be there for and with the candidates, to let them process how they are feeling about everything with someone who has no role in making decisions about their life. 

            I must say, these two days were fascinating, inspiring and affirming. As I sat around with various combinations of these candidates, all at different points in their process, I heard some incredible stories. I heard about some of their favorite moments and experiences with God, and some of the most challenging. I heard excitement, and trepidation. I heard about some of the greatest joys in life. And I also heard about some of the most heart-breaking brokenness.

            And it was the brokenness, the various struggles and hurdles that these candidates have faced, that was so stunning to me. The sense of the journey they were on was so apparent to me in our conversations – the hills, the valleys, the gorgeous peeks and views, and the devastating darkness. And yet despite their trials, these determined people of God have continued on, seeking ever to serve the Lord as a called and ordained minister of the church of Christ.

All this was on my heart as I prepared this sermon on the Road to Emmaus story. It too, is a story of a journey, and one that takes place in the midst of a most dramatic time. It’s important to understand where this story appears in the biblical narrative. In the lectionary, we hear this story two weeks after Easter, after we’ve heard about Jesus’ appearances to Thomas and the others. In the Bible, this actually happens Easter afternoon, before anyone has seen the risen Lord. So they are still deeply grieved, confused, shocked, you name it. All they have is the women’s word about what happened, and Luke tells us they all believed this to be an “idle tale.” So as far as they are concerned, their friend and teacher, the one whom they had hoped would redeem Israel, is dead.

            It is no wonder, then, that Cleopas and his friend are getting the heck out of dodge, heading a few miles down the road to Emmaus. We don’t know much about Emmaus. There is no trace of it, we don’t know its significance, and it is not mentioned anywhere else in the Bible. The thing we know about Emmaus is that, though it may be nowhere special, it is at least several miles away from what was for them an unbearable situation.

In that sense, I suppose, we know exactly where Emmaus is, because we have all been there. We all have our Emmaus, do we not? It is the place we go to get away from here. It is buying a new outfit, or indulging in a glass of wine, or a candy bar. It is smoking too many cigarettes, or driving too fast. It is losing yourself in a good book or your favorite TV show. It is hanging out with friends, or working on your favorite hobby, or even going to church on Sunday. Emmaus is not an inherently bad place, you see – it is just a place that is different from here. In short, Emmaus is where we go when we feel broken: when things haven’t gone the way we had hoped, and we don’t know where else to go besides “away.” It is where we go to escape whatever unwanted realities we may be facing.

But here is the beauty and the good news of the Emmaus story: whatever realities we may try to escape, Jesus comes along and walks with us. Cleopas and his friend are walking along, talking about what happened (you see, even as they try to get away, they can’t get leave behind their thoughts), and a “stranger” joins them. He walks with them. He talks with them. And then he shares with them the good news, causing their hearts to burn within them.

            You see, even though they don’t recognize Jesus, Jesus recognizes them, and knows what they need. As Frederick Buechner writes in his famous sermon on this story, “I believe that although the two disciples did not recognize Jesus on the road to Emmaus, Jesus recognized them, that he saw them as if they were the only two people in the world. And I believe that the reason why the resurrection is more than just an extraordinary event that took place some two thousand years ago and then was over and done with is that, even as I speak these words and you listen to them, he also sees each of us like that… And I believe that because he sees us, not even in the darkness of death are we lost to him or lost to each other. I believe that whether we recognize him or not, or believe in him or not, or even know his name, again and again he comes and walks a little way with us along whatever road we’re following. And I believe that through something that happens to us, or something we see, or somebody we know – who can ever guess how or when or where? – he offers us, the way he did at Emmaus, the bread of life, offers us new hope, a new vision of light that not even the dark world can overcome.”

            And this, of course, is the stunning, surprise ending to this story – and the beginning of the disciples’ new story of hope: when they sit down together and Jesus blesses and breaks bread before them, suddenly they know he is with them, that he has walked with them even on this journey, even in this brokenness. And this is what we still experience today, when we come around this table, bless bread and wine, give thanks for all that God has done, and come forward with our hands outstretched.

There are times when I am distributing communion, when I see one of your faces looking into mine and I think about the brokenness you are facing at this moment in time. What a privilege it is for me to then place that bread in your hand, and say to you in all truth, “This is the body of Christ, which is broken for you, even today, even right now, even in your own brokenness. The body of Christ, given for you.” This truth sometimes hits me so profoundly that I find the words difficult to get out without crying.

            This is what happens when we encounter such love, such grace, such hope. This is what can happen when we share bread together on our journeys: our eyes, which had been kept from seeing anything except our own grief and brokenness, are suddenly opened to see the light of Christ, shining on our path. In response to this recognition, the disciples, unable to contain their excitement, run to tell others the good news. May we, too, be so bold.

            Let us pray… Merciful God, we come to you as broken people, wanting to run away… but even when we do try to get away, you still come to us, offering us your truth and your own broken body. Make us ready to receive it with grateful hearts. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: baptism and clay jars

The following is a sermon I preached for the opening worship of our synod's candidacy retreat, at which all the candidates for ordination (or other rostered leadership positions) come together to talk with candidacy committee members, who then make decisions about the next steps in the candidate's process. I serve as the chaplain for this event.

Candidacy Retreat

May 1, 2014

2 Corinthians 4:1-12

Mark 10:35-45

  

I was baptized on August 28, 1983. I always remember this date, for a few reasons. I had a felt banner that hung on the door of my childhood  bedroom, with a cross, and water, and a dove, my full name, and the date of my baptism, so I saw it every day. And then every year on my baptism birthday (my “rebirthday,” if you will), my parents brought out the special candle I was given at my baptism, and they lit it. They made sure I remembered.

            Now, there is another reason I remember my baptism date. After I received my first call, I went about finding a date for my ordination, which would take place in the congregation in California where I grew up. The bishop gave me a couple dates, and it looked like the one that would work the best for everyone was… August 28. The anniversary of my baptism.

            I loved the coincidence and continuity of this, but as I have continued in ministry, I have appreciated more and more the repeated instruction in it. When it comes down to it, it was my baptism that called me, wasn’t it? My ordination set me apart for a particular sort of ministry, yes, but it was my baptism, when I was washed in the life-giving water which by grace gives new birth through the Holy Spirit, that equipped me and formed me for that ministry. The shared date of these two important events continues to instruct me on what this odd and wondrous calling means. And to be honest, remembering that the root of my call came from the very same place as the call of every member of the Body of Christ, and that everyone’s baptismal call is just as important as mine – the shared date also keeps me humble.

            Humility… That can be a trick sometimes, huh? James and John, the so-called “Sons of Thunder,” show us that in our Gospel lesson this morning. They are a colorful pair, and the passage we heard a moment ago is not the only time that their shenanigans have made me roll my eyes. How pompous, we think, what nerve! To ask Jesus to give them anything they ask? To say, so carelessly, “Yeah yeah, Jesus, we can drink the cup you drink and be baptized with your baptism and all that. No problem.” They have no idea what they are agreeing to! It’s no wonder the other ten disciples get angry with those couple of doofuses. Surely, I think, I would never be so full of myself as all that! Surely, I would never presume to tell Jesus to do whatever I want, whatever I think is right, and assume to be able to do whatever is needed with no problem at all. No way…

            But ah, how the gospel convicts. In truth, that is exactly what I do, time and time again: whenever I enter into any activity without first praying to and with my God; whenever I do pray, but my prayer is anything but “thy will be done”; whenever I make plans according to whatever I think is right, and I am left perplexed, persecuted, or struck down when they do not come out as I had hoped. Serving in the church does not shield us from these discouragements – and perhaps they cut even more deeply in this setting, because, after all, we’re trying to serve God here! But in fact, these are realities of the Christian life – the Christian life we were called to when we were baptized. We work, and serve and do the best we can… but still, it is hard sometimes not to lose heart, to doubt ourselves or others, even to doubt God, to be frustrated and discouraged and perplexed and disappointed. Maybe, in fact, that was how those famed Sons of Thunder were feeling that day of their pompous request – like they were losing control of their lives, confused and discouraged by the fact that Jesus has just foretold his death for the third time, concerned about what the future might hold. I can’t say I wouldn’t have sought some control in that situation, too.

            When I feel this way, I find it helpful to look to that famous passage we just heard from Corinthians – which, by the way, was read at my ordination. “Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we are engaged in this ministry, we do not lose heart.” As I started this sermon, I was remembering that line as “do not lose heart.” But no, it isn’t an imperative so much as a statement of fact: We do not lose heart. We do not lose heart because it is God’s mercy that called us, in our baptism, to this ministry. We do not lose heart because this doesn’t depend on us so much as it depends on God. We do not lose heart because God has shown us again and again how God shines light into darkness, and brings life out of death. We do not lose heart because God is the potter, and we are but clay jars, equipped to hold the treasure that is the gospel, but not to create it.

            I love that metaphor, “clay jars.” Like remembering that it is baptism that calls me just like everyone else, it is humbling to recognize that I am a mere clay jar, frail and weak, subject to being broken, chipped, or cracked. We are just earthen vessels, not too fancy, not too attractive, just ordinary people with ordinary talents and ordinary problems and ordinary desires.

            And it is our very ordinary-ness and humility and vulnerability that makes it possible for God’s extra-ordinary power to shine through. We may think our ideas are pretty stellar, that Jesus should do whatever we ask, but whatever great things we think we’re going to do, God pretty much always responds, “Ehh, I’ve got something else in mind. Why don’t you just let me decide how I’m going to use you?”

            And God does. God takes our cracks and through them makes light shine in darkness. God takes our missteps and uses them to lead us out of death into life. God takes our vulnerability and uses it to make God’s love known to the world.

            Let us pray… God, our Potter: we are just a bunch of clay jars, but still, you have called each us in baptism to participate in your love. Help us to see that our cracks are places your light can shine, and equip us to serve you in ways we never could have imagined ourselves. In the name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit. Amen.

An open love letter about my boobs

Earlier this week, I got out of the shower and was drying myself off and caught my reflection in the mirror. And a thought popped into my head that utterly surprised me: "my beautiful breasts." I stopped what I was doing, and considered what I had just thought. It was something I had never even begun to think before. But encouraged by my subconscious, I took a close look, and I decided that... I agree.

My new breasts really are lovely, even with a giant red scar across the front of each. They aren't real boobs, no, and nothing manmade ever will be. My real boobs were nice, too, for a lot of reasons, but then again, they tried to kill me. But these... as I took a closer look, I started noticing again all the subtle improvements over the old implants. They are things that wouldn't make sense to you unless you, like I, had studied each so carefully, and as I'm considering how I would word the differences, nothing sounds quite right, so I will spare you the details. The old implants, well, they did the job. They filled out my clothes. They took away what would have been a lack and replaced it with a roughly boob-shaped, skin-covered mass. They were nice, and even, and steady. But the new ones... they are kind. They are gentle. They are what you would want in a friend. They are soft, to touch, to feel and to see. They more than do the job - they do it with grace.

Even the scars as they currently exist are a thing of beauty. They remind me of myself (if I may say so without sounding conceited) - a beautiful thing, that has seen some life, and has lived to tell the tale. They bear it well, and aren't ashamed that the scars can be seen. The scars, indeed, become a part of the beauty.

I've been thinking about the next step - my long-awaited tattoo. My sister-in-law is a talented artist, and I have asked her to design the tattoo for me. It has been hard to tell her what I want, because I go back and forth between wanting to do something dramatic, and not wanting to mess up the art that Dr. Langstein has already achieved. I feel the latter even more strongly now. These breasts are not something I don't care about. I feel a strange and unexpected emotional connection to them. Dr. Langstein has said that he sees his purpose as erasing the memory of cancer from the lives of those whom it has threatened, so they can look in the mirror and not be reminded of all that has been lost, and can instead look to the future. It is a lovely purpose, and one that I see even as a sort of ministry in itself. But now, at the end of treatments, looking to the capstone of this experience (my tattoo), I'm not sure to what extent I want to forget, and to what extent I want to embrace as I walk forward.

To that end, I want my tattoo to be something that is as gentle and sweet and kind as the breast it adorns. Something to celebrate, not cover it. Something subtle and beautiful and full of life. (I am open to suggestions!)

But for now, let me just say that I am very content with my new body. Even though I'm not fully healed, and won't be for several more weeks, I can tell that the new girls and I will be very good friends indeed.

New Girls - the series finale!

I'm all done, folks! The new "girls" are in and secure in all their gummi bear splendor, I'm home from the hospital, and I'm feeling pretty darn close to normal. WOO-HOO!

Even up to the moment we arrived at the hospital, I wasn't in the mind frame that I was having surgery. It seemed to me just an item to cross off the to-do list. Having packed for the hospital four times before, I didn't even put out everything I would need carefully the night before like I had done the other times. I just put on my usual "goin' for surgery" outfit (comfy jersey pants, camisole, zip-up green hoodie, and pink and white striped fuzzy socks), since it had served me so well before, and off we went. Once in the pre-surgery area, I knew some of the folks and we waved and greeted each other. The nurse who was helping me get ready laughed at all my jokes, which is always nice. For example, they have to ask what I'm having done today, and I said, "It's a bilateral... revision... swap thing... I'm getting a new rack. Is that good enough?" and she actually doubled over laughing, then told me the actual name of the procedure, which I still couldn't tell you. Or when she noticed there was a hole in my gown right over my right "foob," she said she could get me a new gown, and I said, "Nah, that boob won't be mine for much longer, so I don't care who sees it." She liked that one, too.

Everything seemed to move fairly swiftly, and Michael was with me most of the time. The usual parade of doctors and nurses came through to ask me questions. When the two plastic surgery residents came in, one of them said, "Hey, Trouble," and grinned at me, which pretty much made my morning. Both of those residents have been great. This was the first surgery where I didn't see Dr. Skinner before, which was sad, though I was told that she did pop in to say hello afterward. Of this I have no recollection, so I must have been pretty drowsy still.

Soon enough I was brought into the OR (a different one from before), where of course I continued to joke with the doctors and nurses until I fell asleep. And then I woke up, and shortly thereafter I was moved back to the post-surgical area and Michael came in and sat with me. There was a group of folks from church who gathered to pray for me again in the lobby (how I love them!), and Michael popped in to say hello, but didn't want to leave the waiting room again in case the doctor called for him. He said Dr. Langstein had reported that everything went very smoothly, that I did great, and they are pleased with the result. Michael texted family and friends to let them know. I sat in the post-surgery area for a while, until I stopped falling asleep in the middle of sentences. I got up to go to the bathroom and was amazed how easy it was to stand and walk, compared to the two mastectomies! The nurse came with me, but I hardly needed it. I felt no nausea, no pain, just a little light-headedness from the pain meds. When I said I was ready to go, I went soon thereafter. We left at 1-something, and I said to Michael, "Boy, we got out early. I could really get a few hours in at the office." He did NOT think that was a funny joke.

Once home, I dozed on and off, and let Michael wait on me. I slept well, and even was able to sleep on my side! It took weeks before I could do that after mastectomy. The next day was also pretty chill - mostly watched TV, did a tiny bit of work, and ate a lot of jelly beans.

Last night I got the nerve to take a look at the result. For the first time, I let Michael be there at the same time that I took a full look, and I'm glad I did because as soon as I peeled my tank top down he said, "It looks great! The best boobs money can buy!" And he's right. New girls look much more natural than the old girls. They are softer, as promised (and hence more comfortable), and have a more graceful line. Even with all the permanent marker on them from the surgeon, they looked pretty darn good!

Today I was able to shower and wash off all the hospital gunk, and then take another long look at the New Me. Looking at the new girls separately, they look great, really. Aside from the gigantic glued scar across the front of each of them, you wouldn't know the difference. When I glanced up and took in the new girls along with my face, I was suddenly overwhelmed with everything that this body has been through in the past 22 months. I never thought I would see those mastectomy scars on my young, healthy body. I figured breast cancer was sometime in my future, but thought I might be in my 40s or 50s before that happened. But now here it was: my face on a body with two well done but man-made breasts with huge scars across the front. This is it.

And I'm remarkably okay with that.

Pre-op #5: body-building, the Limbo, and tattoo removal

Today is my last day with the old newbie boobies. Tomorrow I will get my new rack, my new girls. It still hasn't completely sunk in, I suppose. Maybe it's because I have had so many surgeries in so short a time, it feels like just another day in the life. Or maybe this one isn't affecting me as much because it isn't treating or preventing cancer. It is really just cosmetic - which I hate, because it makes me feel so vain. So I have to tell myself instead that it isn't so much cosmetic as it is about quality of life. My surgeon assures me that these will look and feel more real and comfortable, and that lying on my stomach will be easier. Still, I'm not very convincing to myself... I still feel vain for having what amounts to a cosmetic surgery on my breasts, which is exactly something I would never have done if said breasts hadn't threatened to kill me.

I was reminded at my consent for surgery appointment how much I enjoy the doctors I am working with. They are helpful, compassionate, kind and funny. The resident today, in a wonderfully full circle turn of events, is the very same resident who accompanied Dr. Skinner in one of my very first appointments with her, who was there in case I had any questions about the possibility of a mastectomy (at that point, I believed it would be prophylactic). He is the same guy who sewed me up after my first procedure that required stitching up afterward. I liked him so much, both times. How appropriate that he will be there for my last surgery as well. I asked him a whole bunch of questions - all kinds of things you never knew about implants and didn't know to ask. For example:

I used to be strong and could do a bunch of push-ups - the real kind. But now I can barely do ten girl push-ups. And it is uncomfortable to do things like open jars and slice bread. Will I ever be strong again, now that my chest muscles have been repurposed as boobs?

There was actually recently a grant for $25,000 given to research this very thing: strength and muscle in post-reconstruction breast cancer survivors. I can't be in the study because they need to start before surgery, and I'm at the end. But they are working on learning how women can regain strength. After 6-8 weeks, I can begin trying to rebuild those muscles, but need to avoid anything like push-ups or over my head strength exercises for now.

If I do regain some strength, will my boobs get bigger or differently shaped?
Probably not too much. A strengthened muscles may push the implant in a different way, but it probably wouldn't be to bad effect. After those few weeks have passed, there isn't really anything I can do to mess up the implants. Since I'm not planning on doing any sort of major body building (really, I just want to be able to open a stinkin' jar again!), this is probably fine for me.

If there is stray breast tissue that didn't come out at the time of the mastectomy, would it be affected by pregnancy?
Probably not noticeably. There is so little left, it is negligible.

How do you get the old implant out and the new one in?
Open the old scar (actually cutting it out and making a new, better scar), and possibly cutting through the muscle, but they would cut with the grain of the muscle, not against it. Sometimes they can slip the deflated implant out the side. Dr. Langstein tells me they will cut through the Alloderm (the cadaver skin they used with the initial reconstruction), not muscle.

How long until I can drive?
Depends. Maybe a couple days.

There were some other questions, but those were the most pressing.

I also spoke with Dr. Langstein. He took some before and after pictures, and drew on me so he would know where we started. He asked if I was pleased with what I currently look like, and I said I was fairly pleased, as far as fake boobs are concerned, and he said, "Because I think this turned out pretty well. What you have is some of my best work!" So he doesn't plan to do any adjustments, besides of course swapping the implants and cutting out the old scar (which, by the way, they send to pathology, just in case - but don't expect to find anything).

He did say that with the new, anatomically shaped implants, I will "lose some projection" because of the different distribution. I chimed in, "So you're saying I will be better at the Limbo..." He chuckled, a little thrown off, agreed that I will indeed be able to stay in the limbo game for longer, then said, "I forgot, I need to be on my game with you." He smiled and said "hold on" while he tried to think of a snappy response, but then said, "Nah, not today. Too tired. See you tomorrow!" I love him.

One other interesting thing about this appointment. Dr. Langstein said he could remove my radiation tattoos for me, specifically the one that is at the bottom of my sternum. There is a new laser technology that makes this very easy, and he could do all five of them for me if I wanted. I was surprised how resistant I was to this. I'm not sure if I want them gone. They are part of my story, like scars. I would lose the shock factor of telling people, "I have five tattoos!" (although I will gain the shock value of, "My boobs are tattooed!"). I always sort of liked that my particular tattoos almost make the sign of the cross (but I have one on my chin instead of my forehead, where the sign of the cross would actually start). This has always served as a sort of reminder that no matter what trials I may endure, I remain a child of God, marked by the cross of Christ. One last silly reason, which I told Dr. Langstein, is that I used to use that dot at the bottom of my sternum as the indication that my shirt was too low cut - if you could see the tattoo, the shirt was too low! The resident suggested I could just ask my husband, but I'm not sure he would give a very objective opinion on that matter... ;)

But joking aside, I am playing with the idea of having these removed, and I honestly feel like something would be missing. I earned those tattoos. They are a part of my story. It feels like they always have been. Although I am ready to move on from cancer, I'm not ready to deny it ever happened, and somehow doing away with all scars seems dishonest to something that has been so important to me and my formation. So, it seems a little silly, but I think I want to keep my radiation tattoos. But I'll keep considering.

Well, after a day of doing things I won't be able to do for a couple weeks (exercise, chores requiring lifting, some yard work), my husband is home. I think I will relish some time with him. See you after (my last!) surgery!

Easter Sermon: "I feel the earth move under my feet."

Easter 2014

April 20, 2014

Matthew 28:1-10

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia!

As I was preparing for this Easter this year, I couldn’t help but think about this time last year. I remember last Easter very well. Actually, not so much Easter itself, as the week following Easter. On Monday, I had my bridal shower, on a beautiful day in my aunt and uncle’s home on Lake Ontario, surrounded by many of my friends and family. On Tuesday, my parents left Rochester and returned to their home in California. On Wednesday, I had a routine scan, a usual check-up following my little bout with cancer the previous fall. We had every reason to believe it would be clear… but the scan turned into a biopsy of some suspicious tissue. And on Thursday, while I was having lunch with some friends, I got a phone call from the doctor, and I was diagnosed with cancer. Again. For the third time.

I remember sitting at that lunch table, telling my friends what I had learned, head in hands, tears in eyes, as my Pad Thai was set down in front of me. Here I had been planning my wedding, and celebrating with friends, and getting excited about starting a family soon with the love of my life. And suddenly, everything changed. Everything was different. Plans had to change. Major surgery was on the horizon. Dreams were put on hold. My heart, my world had been shaken.

An emotional earthquake. These things happen, don’t they? I am sure you all have your own stories of times when the things you were sure of were suddenly challenged, when you felt that you no longer stood on solid ground. Or times when everything you had built and were comfortable with was suddenly changed. Or times when your heart was ripped in two and nothing was as it should be and you no longer could tell which way was the right way. An earthquake. If you have made it this far without one, you will undoubtedly experience one at some point, because, as Ernest Hemingway said, “Life breaks everyone” eventually.

In Matthew’s account of the resurrection that we just heard, he mentions that there was an earthquake that first Easter morning, which moved the stone away from the tomb. You may remember, if you were here on Passion Sunday, that this is not the first earthquake we’ve had this week. Matthew also tells us there was an earthquake the moment that Jesus died, the moment when those who had been his followers and believed him to be the Messiah must have doubted and despaired, because this man who now hung on a cross could certainly not be the one who would save them, as they had hoped he would be.

And so it was surely with heavy hearts that those women approached the tomb that morning. A physical as well as an emotional earthquake had shaken their very foundations. Their plans had to change. Their hopes had been dashed. And just when they could not be any more in despair, the ground shakes again – another earthquake! Hadn’t they had enough?!

And yet this earthquake is something entirely different. There, before their eyes, an angel moves

across the sky like lightening, wearing clothes a dazzling white, and moves away that big heavy stone, which Matthew tells us had been placed there to prevent Jesus’ disciples or anyone from stealing the body. The first earthquake had devastated; this one shocks, as the inside of the once tightly sealed tomb before them comes into view and they find that, as the angel tells them, it is empty. Rather than devastation, this earthquake had brought hope to the women at the tomb – hope in the possibility (even if they still feared!) of new life.

Maybe you have seen the movie Fight Club. It’s a difficult movie to watch, but the themes are quite fascinating. In it, a group of men rediscover the spark of life by engaging in consensual fistfights with each other, and through this, they find a new way to live. As the main character explains, “Only after disaster can we be resurrected.” Could this not be the take-away from the experience of those women at the tomb? They had experienced disaster – seen their friend and teacher crucified before their eyes, and endured an earthquake of the land and of the heart. And now, as they try to move on with their lives, tending to the dead body of their beloved teacher, they experience another earthquake, now showing them that when the earth moves under your feet, you might just look up to find an open and empty tomb, and an angel telling you with the authority of God himself, “Do not be afraid.”

            And in these four words is the best news of all. An earthquake that opens a tomb by itself is not good news – it is earth-shattering. An empty tomb by itself is not good news – it is confusing. Even an angel that moves like lightening and is dressed like the sun is not good news – it is terrifying. But those words – “do not be afraid” – offer us the promise that comes with the shock of the resurrection. When the angel says these words, and when Jesus says the same words a bit later, it is not to assure us that nothing will ever go wrong. We know from experience that things do frequently go wrong. We have all

had earthquakes in our lives – you may even be in the midst of one right now. We have gotten the dreaded phone call, watched the heart-breaking scene, and experienced what we thought could never happen to us. So those words don’t shield us from trouble. “Do not be afraid” does not mean that everything is going to work out for the best, because while we may like to tell ourselves that, we know that it isn’t always the case, and in fact, it often isn’t.

            No, when we hear those words, “Do not be afraid” from the angel, and then later from Jesus, it is an assurance that what earthquakes we may endure, whatever ways our lives may get turned upside down, whatever gutters we may find ourselves in, God has the power to hold us and strengthen us through it. With those words, we know that whatever we may have to face, we need not face it alone, and that no earthquake, no matter how strong, is stronger than God’s love for us.  

            At the end of the day – or in the case of the resurrection story, at the beginning of the new day, just before dawn – God gets the last word. God’s love wins. God’s love and power turn our earthquakes and our despair and our devastation into an opening, into hope, into the possibility for growth and newness and new life. Sometimes it is an earthquake that we need in order to see and experience resurrection.

            Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia! Amen.