Here are the other two:
HEALING
CELEBRATION
Three times. Three times in my life, three times before I
turned 30, I heard those dreaded words: “It’s cancer.”
And while each experience had some common factors, they were
also each very different. And in each experience, hope manifested itself
differently.
The first time I had cancer, age 15, it was Hodgkin’s
Lymphoma. I remember when I hung up the phone with the doctor – I was lying on
my stomach on my bed, with my mom next to me. I remember thinking, “I guess I’m
supposed to cry now.” I remember when my dad came home from work – he was the
pastor of our church – my mom told him the news, and he came into my room, and he
prayed aloud for us all. Though I saw him preach and lead worship every week, this
was the first time I really experienced him as my pastor. I remember how powerful
that was. What I remember most profoundly about that first cancer experience
was how much prayer there was all around me, from beginning to end and well beyond.
People I didn’t know, all around the world even, were praying for me, asking
about me, holding me in their hearts. I found immense hope in knowing that I
was not going through this alone.
The second time, age 29, the diagnosis was breast cancer,
DCIS. Once again, I was surrounded with prayer, with the love and support of my
parents, friends, and congregation. But perhaps the greatest hope of that time
around came from my then-boyfriend. A week after my diagnosis, he asked me to
marry him. Even though I had told him I couldn’t make any other major life
decisions at that point, he wanted me to know that he would be going through
this with me as a committed partner. “I’m not running,” he said. “I’m in this
with you.” The day of my lumpectomy was his 40th birthday; I told
him my gift to him was a cancer-free fiancé, and he was thrilled. His steadfastness
and commitment was a beacon of hope in a dark moment.
The third time came six months later, two days after my
bridal shower. This second breast cancer diagnosis would mean I would lose my left
breast, and eventually both of them. I was, through my breast cancer, serving
as a pastor, just over a year into my ministry. Through these tumultuous months
that delivered two breast cancer diagnoses, my congregation – who barely even
knew me by that time! – rallied around me, offering prayer, meals, check-ins,
gifts, grace when I couldn’t do my work, and then reminders to go home and take
care of myself. While I was in surgery, during both of my mastectomies, a group
from the church gathered in the waiting room and prayed for me and for my
doctors. That beautiful community embodied grace and hope for me. They showed
their pastor what faith looks like.
Each experience was different, but each also had some common
threads of hope: namely, the hope found in community, and for me, in my faith.
Hope was found in my parents, dutifully driving their 15-year-old daughter to
all her cancer treatments an hour away from our home. Hope was found in a
partner who refused to leave my side. Hope was found in a gathering of faithful
people, fiercely holding me in prayer and insisting
on bringing me meals. Hope was found in the assurance that I was loved. When
one is made so sure of such love, it’s awfully hard to fall into despair.
Believe me, I toyed with the idea, but the relentless love around me would not
let despair take root. And lo and behold, as I sailed along on that raft of
hope, buoyed by my loving community, I was able to start looking at all these
deaths and losses I was experiencing, and start to see in them some newness,
some possibility for the future. I began to see hope made manifest.
I look around at this crowd, this gathering of people who
are loved and loving, who are committed, who will not let one another fall into
despair, and I see hope. Keep holding onto one another, dear friends. Keep
sharing your love, in word and deed. Because you are the very embodiment of
hope.
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