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Stage 4 pancreatic cancer is a nasty diagnosis. The survival rate at five years is only one
to three percent. Not good odds for
anyone. For a 78-year-old man, truly not
hopeful. But. Alex Trebek, who is really one of my very
favorite celebrities, has heard that horrid diagnosis and he’s been pretty
forthcoming about his illness and his fight against it with the millions of
people who watch Jeopardy each day. So how cool is it that Trebek
recently announced that his cancer is in ‘near remission’? Maybe more than cool. Maybe miraculous. You see, back in March when
he announced his illness, Trebek asked for prayer. Now if you watch NBC or CBS news,
you might not know this because they censored it out last week, but Trebek is
giving credit, at least partially, to millions of prayers for his good news,
and his doctors aren’t arguing.
I don’t want to get too political here, but one point begs
to be made. No matter how much our ‘mainstream
media’ or other factions in our country want to limit and even eliminate God
and ignore His power, the truth is that God is just not willing to be censored
or limited or ignored. It doesn’t matter
if NBC doesn’t like or chooses to edit out the fact that Trebek’s cancer remission
isn’t following statistics. It doesn’t matter that they left out Trebek’s words
giving prayer (and consequently God) the glory for his improved health. It doesn’t matter that our society has
decided to marginalize and try to disregard God and the people who have a
personal relationship with Jesus. It
doesn’t matter because God is bigger and stronger and more beautiful than any
bullying that can come His way. And we,
those of us who know God personally, know the Truth about His love and power even
when others try to silence it.
I mentioned a while back that I have a nephew, Nick, who was
very suddenly stricken with numbness and paralysis from the chest down. He’s in a battle to reteach his legs to walk.
The rehab is going to take a significant amount of time and his resolve to stay
focused and daring during arduous marathons of therapy are demanding more strength
and courage than I’m sure I have. As if it weren’t enough, he faces another
test of his bravery and strength each day as well – that of continuing to be a
husband and a father and engaging in each day even though life has been unfair
to him and changed so much in the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee. I saw
pictures yesterday of Nick playing catch with his children. In many ways that activity, smiling and
laughing while throwing and catching a ball from his wheelchair in a hospital
corridor may have taken more pluck than anything else. Choosing to stay positive and carrying on isn’t
for sissies when the going gets tough. I admire him and his family for how they
are walking this awful journey.
Courage is an unpredictable and sometimes skittish creature. I picture my own courage almost mouse-like: small and furry, timid often but with unexpected moments of ferocity. I think my bravery is small and not very mighty. For me, it’s so easy to focus on the fear and be ruled by that instead of calling up my nerve. What I’m learning though, is that courage abounds when I make myself take the first step. Courage multiplies and solidifies with each step as long as I keep moving forward. Think Daniel in the lion’s den. No doubt he was panicked when the door slammed shut. He could smell the musky scent of the lions, feel their body heat and hear them nearby. He may have thought if he stood still enough they wouldn’t notice him. But then, when he didn’t feel the tear of their teeth, maybe he turned around. Maybe he stood there a long time just staring into the eyes of the huge cat in front of him. Perhaps, when the animal cocked his head to study the strange creature in front of him, Daniel had just enough daring to reach out his hand. (He could have been thinking, “Okay, if he’s going to eat me at least I will find out if his mane is really as soft as it looks.”) And that’s my point. God didn’t let them eat Daniel and he survived, but maybe, just maybe Daniel was meant to do more than just survive. Maybe his courage helped him turn around and reach out. Maybe he and the cats spent the night playing something more fun than cat and mouse. Isn’t that what God wants for us? Life “more abundantly”? We can live our life cowering, using only the bare essentials of courage and strength, or we can choose to reach out, take that step out of the boat, let go of our lost dreams or current troubles, and play ball.
Our goal this past week was to purchase a car for me. Karl has his truck, which we stored here when
we were on island, and while we are happy to ‘share and share alike’ with our
lives, there are some limits within even a good marriage, and sharing a car,
for us, is one of those. So we embarked upon one of my most unliked
endeavors – car shopping. Need I state
it? The week was stressful. I’m not convinced that anyone needs as many choices
as presented themselves in this crusade.
Now that our campaign is complete and a pretty red, used Nissan Rogue (with a sunroof!) is sitting outside, my blood pressure has returned to normal and my stomach has quit hurting. Task completed, I have the luxury of consideration, and I’ve been thinking about the pressures we’ve withstood this week. Some pressure came from inside us: not to overspend, to be wise, and to choose something reliable. Much of the pressure, though, came from outside. Car salesmen can be evil. We walked in with a set idea of what we were willing to pay and what we wanted. Then the contest began: offer us something just above that with one more cool feature to entice us. The pressure to score “an awesome deal” was real and hard to ignore.
Our week finished well.
We didn’t overspend our budget, we stayed true to our original goals. Part
of our success, I’m sure, came from our individual experiences and wisdom along
with the strength of our partnership in keeping us focused.
Today’s young people have so many choices to make these days
– choices I never had. Sure, drinking alcohol and sexual activity were choices
I was faced with as a teen, but most of society and the people who were raising
me gave me clear and definite guidelines to use in making my choices. My friends
and I didn’t necessarily comply with those guidelines, but we knew what they
were. I didn’t have to ‘choose’ my orientation,
or my gender as I was growing up. Shooting people and suicide weren’t options
available. There are so many choices now,
lines are murky, pressure is unbelievable. The world’s ‘salesmen’ are adept at what they
do.
Young people I love are in the crosshairs of prevailing
pressure, and while I know hugs and prayer are powerful, they just don’t always
feel like enough. That doesn’t mean I’m going to quit either activity, but I’m
thinking I’m going to explore other actions I can take to advocate and support them.
When I’m away from Wyoming for a
while, I forget a bit about how magnificent it is. Coming home in the spring has been a joy. The
weather is petulant and chaotic – warm and beautiful one day, snow and bone-deep
cold the next. No matter, there’s hope and assurance that even the snow won’t
last long, and what replaces it is amazing.
First there’s the sky. Yesterday,
to the west the infinite blue above set off the Colorado Rockies, sixty miles
away, so that the sun was reflecting off the snowy peaks. At the same time toward the east, a
wedge-shaped storm front, bluish black and angry, sported lightening stabs
along with turbulence and chaos. This morning started overcast but now, oddly
shaped and somewhat grey puffs are beginning to give way to powdery blue. Since we’re a ‘flyover state’, jet contrails
draw patterns among the clouds.
If I drop my eyes from above, the
carpet of prairie grass below me becomes a delight of its own. Grasses grow greener with each snowfall, and
just in the past few days, tiny flowers have begun appearing. Their courage and bravery seem incompatible
with the harsh coolness of the winds, but even so, they persevere.
Maybe the best
part of a spring homecoming is being welcomed with a serenade from the
meadowlarks. There’s really no other
sound like their happy calls. Such a
gift! (If you’ve never heard one, or you
just need a pick-me-up, click here- but don’t forget to come back!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lngs9-X5cPM
So,
while I’m wearing two pairs of socks most of the time, and we’re hoping the
pipes in our trailer don’t freeze when the temps dip low in the night, I’m just
reveling in the wonders of Wyoming, thankful for the beauty of God’s creation.
Two weeks ago today I spent the afternoon snorkeling. I was accompanied by two turtles, a huge sting ray and a small spotted eagle ray as well as schools of blue, yellow, shiny white and tiger striped friends. One week ago today I spent the day riding in the passenger seat of a large rental truck feeling like a turtle knowing all my earthly possessions were riding along with me and Karl on a 2200 mile trek from Florida to Cheyenne. Today, those possessions are safely tucked in a storage unit and I’m sitting in our camp trailer just outside of the city, watching as Wyoming April showers fall. Keep in mind that here in April nearly all showers happen at a temperature that obligates them to be white and wet.
What a difference fourteen days make!
I grew up a little afraid of water. I’m not a good swimmer, but I learned on our
first trip to the Caribbean that if I had a little faith and stepped out of the
boat, I was actually quite adept at floating. It was a surprise. Then I opened
my eyes and discovered an incredible world below the surface. From then on,
snorkeling became nearly an act of prayer for me – being so excited and thankful
and awed to share in the wonder of God’s creation. When our love for the
Caribbean, and especially St. Croix, grew – well God opened doors and led us to
buying our Pirate’s Perch so that we could eventually live there pretty much
full time.
In February of this year something happened. I didn’t hear God speak to me and neither did Karl, but we became convinced that our time in St. Croix was finished. Our prayers and feelings were reinforced when we accepted an offer on our house within a week of putting it on the market and all our moving plans fell into place quite effortlessly. Plans came smoothly, but in other ways this move hasn’t been easy. I love St. Croix and I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave. I’ve cried a lot. Even so, from the moment Karl and I began talking about moving, I’ve sensed a nudge. Maybe it would be more accurate to term it an invitation. An invitation that felt like a call to do something akin to stepping out of the boat. I resisted that invitation for a while, fought against it. I found comfort and joy in snorkeling in the days before we left the island. At some point, bobbing on the top of the warm sea, watching the pageant of coral and fish in that world that can only be seen when I leave the comfort of solid ground and submerge myself, peace descended. It took courage for me to snorkel that very first time, but my faith was rewarded with a whole new world. Now, I’m being asked to do it again, and despite my fear, I’ve decided to trust the God who has always been faithful. I’m reaching for God’s hand and stepping out onto a new adventure.
In the past couple of weeks, we’ve been spending a lot of time near and in the sea. Last week, we went out on the Renegade with Big Beard’s Tours for a day at Buck Island (our fourth trip with them – awesome!), I’ve snorkeled around the Frederiksted Pier, the coral at Frederiksted City Beach, and searched for chaney and sea glass along the shoreline. (Thankfully, I have a great little camera that will allow me to share a little of what I’ve seen.) I love the sounds of the sea, the feel of the salt in the air and the soft grit of sand on my feet. I marvel at the hundreds of shades of blues and greens from sky and surf. I love watching pelicans do loop-de-loops that end in a ‘boosh’ as they hit the water, diving for fish. The water isn’t just warm, it is soft and inviting. It feels silky against my skin.
Actually, when I’m snorkeling, I feel like I’m flying,
weightless and without restraints above an exotic and foreign world. The moment
I enter the water is always a surprise. I’m standing, usually about thigh-deep,
adjusting my mask and sliding on fins.
The world is ‘normal’, familiar.
The breeze ruffles my hair and the sun glints off the surface – since my
sunglasses have been left behind in favor of a mask, I squint a little in the
glare. Then, with the mouthpiece now in
place, I bend over a bit, take a breath and slide in. Most of the time there are fish darting
within arm’s length. Small, tiger
striped ones, or neon blue headed wrasses.
They’ve been there all the time but I couldn’t see them until my head
was in the water. I kick out a little. Now the only sound I hear is my own
breathing. As I adjust to my new world,
the rushing sound that is my breath slows and begins to mimic the rhythm of the
waves, the sea, life.
Now I am somewhere magical.
Even if the scene beneath me is clean sand there are wonders to explore. A shell, a tiny school of fish, a shiny black
sea urchin making a trail in the sand as it makes its slow trek. I like the coral beds best. Brightly colored
brain coral hosts a forest of Christmas tree worms, a crab scuttles beneath a
dust colored rock, a piece of sea glass adds its bright green to the scene. Coral
that looks like a Dr. Seuss creation stands still as a sea fan beside it slowly
waves back and forth.
Brain coral and Christmas Tree wormsSea urchin, crab and a striped fish all hanging together.Dr. Seuss would be proud…
And of course, the fish. Tiny and large, beautiful and ugly, colorful and plain. Some are loners, swimming solitary and content. Schools of nearly transparent fish hurry past and then I watch as a yellow striped group ride the current in and out from under a rock ledge. Some swim close to me, unafraid and uncaring, others dart quickly away or into a crevice in a rock when I approach. Something catches my eye beside me and I smile to see a needlefish swimming beside me, as curious about me as I am of him. I nearly miss seeing the flounder right beneath me, he looks so much like the rock. Sometimes the sea reveals to me special gifts – two turtles, one hawksbill and one green, swam beneath me last week. A barracuda slid by me at the pier, uninterested in me but even so making my heart quicken a bit. Even more rarely, a ray, an eel, squid, jelly fish.
Can you see the nearly transparent fish in the foreground?Beautiful!Flounders are just too cool.
Mostly when I am snorkeling, my mind is so busy absorbing the wonder and beauty there is no room for thought. But invariably, at some point, the magnificence of this world I am able to get a glimpse of and be a small part of brings me to wordless prayer. The character and power of God are so apparent as I witness the detail and variety. The sheer grandeur of His creativity calls to my soul and I feel Him caress me, just as the warm sea water does, and I, for one small moment, am finally able to touch Him and feel Him touch me. I am still. I know He is God.
The Irish countryside new Newgrange, north of Dublin.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about traveling and
journeys. Our trip to Dublin a few weeks
ago began this line of thinking, I suppose.
That trip was short, just nine days, and filled with family, and bangers
and mash, and tours of the Guinness Storehouse, staring at bog bodies in the
museum, and reveling in the truly emerald green countryside. For that trip, plans were complete ahead of
time, we knew our destination, where we were staying, and when we were coming
home. It was happily planned, predictable,
and terrific.
Not every journey is as fun or easily dictated. Our pastor, John, (here on our island)
preached about journeys yesterday using Joseph and his life as an example. John’s been on quite a trek himself – this Sunday
was his first time in the pulpit for a while as he had hip replacement surgery
and has been on a voyage of recovery. He had to go to Miami for several weeks, and
while he had a hope and an idea of how his trip would unfold, there were no guarantees.
His journey started out with a plan, hope and prayer, and has led him safely back
to his congregation. My nephew this week
became ill and is in the hospital. It’s
taken doctors a while to even diagnose the journey his body is taking him on,
and even now that they’ve named it, it looks as if the trip may be rocky and unpredictable. Some journeys seem unfair and frightening
with no plan or clear destination.
John’s sermon point yesterday was that during times when
*we have no idea about where we are going on our life’s expeditions,
*when we don’t even understand the need for a trip in the
first place ,
*when we feel and are
unable to control our paths or anticipate the outcome,
*when tomorrow’s hours are hazy and unbiddable,
even then, we can be assured that God knows the plan and that He sees the destination. Further, we can relax knowing that He has this trip carefully and intentionally laid out to grow us and shape us into the persons He wants us to be. I honestly don’t like this. Oh, I love the fact that God is trying to grow me and that He knows the ending of the trek I’m on, I just wish I had a little more information before I begin because the ambiguity and the unknown scare me. Joseph, in answering the Pharaoh in Genesis 41:14 made this bold statement of faith: “I cannot do it. But God…” So. There’s my comfort and my joy for the week.
The word druid might conjure up for you thoughts of
mystical, hooded people who perform cultic kinds of rituals and sacrifices
among the standing stones in Ireland and England. In reality, that view of
druids comes from a ‘Celtic revival in the 18th and 19th
Centuries’ and is probably a gross misrepresentation of who and what the druids
were. We know very little about them actually, because they left us no written
records. While we were in Ireland, we had a close encounter with Druids on a
tour to Newgrange mound. Newgrange was
built in 3,200 B.C. – that’s about 5,200 years ago! It’s a large, circular mound
nearly a hundred feet in diameter – all man-made- surrounded by tons of cool
standing stones. (It’s actually older than Stonehenge!) To get inside the mound, you walk through a
narrow passage of carefully placed boulders that leads to a center, high
ceilinged space. Many of the boulders (in
the passage, inside the mound and outside the structure) are decorated with
intricate and delicate carvings of concentric circles and diamonds and
triangles. It’s difficult to describe, but once inside, I got the feeling I was
inside a cathedral. The domed ceiling is
made with circular layers of boulders capped by one large stone. (Those boulders
are covered with about 8 feet of dirt and grass above.) Even after over 5,000
years, the structure is totally waterproof.
If that isn’t enough to impress you, here’s one more thing: the passage into Newgrange is aligned perfectly with the sun’s rays each year on the winter solstice. We weren’t there for it, but the tour guide, using lights, showed us how on the first day of winter each year, the sun shines, for about eight minutes, in a perfect line through a small window above the passage opening, down the narrow corridor and directly into the center of the mound. It’s amazing. It’s astounding to think that people so long ago could build something with such precision that it would gather the sun into itself on that exact day, and that the whole thing is standing still today.
As we stood inside gawking, the tour guide said something
that has made me think. He was talking
about the Druids, admitting we know nearly nothing about them. Then he said that
all religions of the world were in one way or another an attempt by man to
reach out and grasp some kind of understanding of how we got here and what
happens beyond this life. He went on to
observe that clearly the druids saw some significance in the sun. That statement made me remember the Bible
verse, (I’ve blogged about it before,) Romans 1:20. “For since the creation of the world God’s invisible
qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being
understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse.” The druids built Newgrange 3,000 years before
Jesus walked this earth. They lived far
from the middle east and in all likelihood never heard about the Israelites or
the Bible stories we know. Yet, they had
the opportunity to know God. They had
His sun.
As Karl and I
walked around the grounds at Newgrange, I noticed a place that looked like a
meeting spot defined by standing stones and pavers, in the shape of a
cross. Hmmm.
Now that I’m back in my own bed and the jet lag is history, I
can relive our Ireland trip with the hundreds of pictures I took and the
memories we made. We saw remarkable
things and experienced so much it is impossible to talk about it all. I think over the next few days, I’ll share
little bits of our trip so you can see what I mean.
We booked a tour to the Cliffs of Moher, a stunning place on
the west coast of Ireland. Getting there meant driving in a cushy bus all the
way from Dublin (which is on the east coast) across the middle of Ireland to
the west coast. It was about a three
hour drive each way, but definitely worth it just for the joy of watching the
countryside roll by. I loved how beautiful country estates – modern and impeccable
– stood next to ruins of castles, towers, churches and estates hundreds of
years old. It’s such a cliché to talk
about how green it is in Ireland, but, in fact, it is. The hue of the grass of the Irish country
side is a deep, nearly neon green that defies description.
The Cliffs didn’t disappoint, either. Over a thousand feet high, standing
not-so-close to the edge and looking out made my heart pound. The surf below
endlessly pounds and swirls. Sometimes we
could hear something almost like thunder echo as waves collided with the rocks far
below. In some places, the wind captured
the sea spray before racing up the face of the cliffs and splashing it in a
fine mist on us far above. At first we though it was rain, but the saltiness on
my lips convinced me otherwise.
Standing in awe, I was once again astounded by God’s vivid
creativity. If you look really hard at
one of my pictures, you can see people standing atop the cliff. Tiny, tiny humans in contrast to the tall,
imposing cliffs that are, in fact, only a weak monument of the strength and power
of our God. I’m humbled as I picture God’s
hand forming these precipices carefully and intentionally, and I’m reassured
that His care for the scenery of this world speaks so clearly about the depth of
His love for the people He placed here and called His.
I’m not going to bed tonight. Nope.
Tonight Karl and I will be sitting in relatively uncomfortable seats,
accompanied by strangers, all trying to sleep sitting up while we hurl through
the atmosphere a little above the ocean and a little below space. And we are excited about it! We are on our way to Ireland to spend a week
with our daughter, son-in-law, two grandsons, their other set of grandparents,
and an uncle. We’ll be in Dublin for St.
Patrick’s Day, and maintaining my total history geekdom, I have been furiously
researching Irish history. Wow. Lots to learn and enjoy. I’m a control freak,
as we all know, and in preparation for the trip, I’ve made lists and tables of
places to see, scheduled tours to take, printed maps of how to get there. I’ve researched euros and uber, the potato
famine and Dublin’s bus system. I’m
ready.
What I’m thinking about right now, though, is the trip. When we board our flight from Miami to Heath
Row (and really, any other flight we ever take or have taken), I am highly
aware that I have purchased a ticket that requires me to relinquish every bit
of control. We have chosen our seats,
but I have no say about who sits beside me. I can’t choose if or what food will
be offered or the temperature in the cabin. I have no input about the crew flying
the plane, I don’t know about their skills or experience. I can’t watch over shoulders and give my two
cents about routes or altitudes. When I
board, I am agreeing to total acceptance.
Hmm. Just to be
clear, all night tonight, I will willingly demonstrate my complete faith in
total, unseen strangers. Yet, there are
lots of times that I withhold my trust or doubt the reliability of my God even
though I know Him intimately and have experienced example after example of His
power and might and good purpose for my life. Just the thought of this irony
makes me wince. The Creator of the sea
below and space above, the Hand that engineered the sciences man taps into in
order to be able to fly – often receives much less of my faith that the flight
crew tonight will.
I’m quite certain,
based on past experience, that I won’t sleep much tonight. I’m resolving right now to spent at least
some of tonight’s long night rerouting my faith – since it really isn’t the
crew or the fuselage that will safely convey us to Ireland – and pondering the Hand
that is holding me up.
