Failing My Mammogram and Pansy Prayers

I never arrived. But there I was. 

I don't want to meet hardships. But when the insufferable hand is extended, I want to offer a firm handshake. Who offers a pansy handshake? But I may never get there.

I had a huge scare this last week. I received a notice after my mammogram saying I needed to come in for more testing. Diagnostic testing. Another mammogram. Ultrasound. 

My mother is a breast cancer survivor.

Panic overrode my peace. That simple. That difficult. 

I stomped my foot at myself. Shelli, you know you can trust God. 

My mind and my spirit know the right things. This is what I know--God has me covered. There is nothing that happens to me that isn't allowed by Him. In the surrounding heat, God holds out His mighty hand and covers me. The hand continually covers me. But because we just can't seem to stay in His intended protection, since the beginning of time, we get burned anyway. Things happen. Disease and bad things exist. If my 13-month old daughter had cancer, I'm certainly at risk. 

Fear wrestled with my faith. In my dreams. In my daydreams. I thought of every "what if" scenario. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Accusations. You were late for your mammogram. How can you remotely encourage others through hardships if you can't handle this? 

I went in for my second mammogram and ultrasound. "We need a biopsy."

I cried out to my dear friend from childhood. She'd been praying for me since I found out. I told her I'd been sick, dizzy, sleepless. Where was peace? 

She said, "No more pansy prayers from me, Shelli. I'm praying seriously for you."

Much needed laughter penetrated my chest cavity. 

A week I wait for the biopsy. 

"This looks like a fibroadenoma type mass. Benign. Tiny. But we can't be sure." 

Hope springs alive in my heart. 

My gut feels pierced, my insides covered in pain. I so failed. Man's word gives me hope. What about God's word? Hope eternal.

I grab on to His hand that covers me. I peek up at Him. As He lifts me up, my feet flip-flop around barely touching the ground. "God, I trust you. I do. Forgive me. Help me. Let me be okay." I pray on my face.

The Spirit within says to me, "Say it, Shelli."

"I don't know if I can. How did you say it, Lord Jesus? How?"

"Say it, Shelli." I wrestle with the Spirit within.

I don't know. "I don't know that I want to give you approval. I don't think I can." I love my girls, I want to be a grandmother one day, and I'm not that tough. I toss and turn in bed. Tears soak my pillow.

"I don't need your approval."

I want to pound the pillow. Four mighty words seep out of my mind and heart and mouth, as I choose surrender instead. "Thy. Will. Be. Done." Tears flood.

Just because you're covered doesn't mean you won't feel the heat. Doesn't mean you won't get stings, scrapes, and bruises on your ankles. Doesn't mean you won't get beat by flying debris. Doesn't mean you won't get wind-burned. But you can believe--it's a heap lot cooler in the shade of God's hand. Bearable. You are covered, Shelli. Covered by the blood of the Lamb. 

But no more pansy prayers, Shelli. The way you beg for life ... you beg for others.

The phone rang today. "The results are benign." 

All that flip-flopping around for nothing. Pansy handshake. Faith over failure, Shelli. Not failed faith. How on earth will you survive when you get bad news? One day again, more than likely, you'll receive bad news. That's life. But it's the how. You'll survive on earth or in heaven because God has you covered. But it's the how. 

You've arrived because of Jesus. But you haven't arrived. How will you survive? In the now? How? Will you trust? It's not really for nothing when your flop flips to the In God We Trust side.

No more pansy, Shelli.

"I have put my words in your mouth and covered you with the shadow of my hand—I who set the heavens in place, who laid the foundations of the earth, and who say to Zion, ‘You are my people.’” Isaiah 51:16

Thank you, Julie Garmon, for the reminder of this beautiful Scripture.

When You Are Living A Nightmare And You Desperately Want To Wake Up

This day didn't happen. This didn't happen. I close my eyes. Darkness. I toss and turn, distressed. The sweat breaks out.

I heard the news report. Desperation flooded my soul. The baby had been dragged into the water by an alligator. At Disney World, the best place on earth.

How many times have we played on those beaches? How many times do we dip toes near to danger? How many times do we dig our toes into near-terror?

Little kid buckets, shovels, rakes. 

Footloose and fancy-free.

Year after year since my girls were eight and six. The beautiful beaches. The water you'd never go far into. But the beaches that you'll run along the shore ... the ones that aren't marked: "Caution: Alligators" ... The water's edge you'll sit by. Feed the ducks by. Throw out bread. Soak your feet in on a hot day, while taking a break from the rides and the park thrills. 

My heart cries out for those parents. The parents who tried to grab that baby. The ones whose strength was no match for the beast. The ones whose hearts sank lower than anyone can estimate. The ones who will have to fight to recover their own hearts.

A dream come true turned nightmare.

The weight attached to my heart sinks deeper in the mud and mire. 

The eyes of our children sinking to despair, to tragedy, to disease, to cancer, to pain.

The last breath.

Say something.

The eyes begging for relief, help, mercy.

And through a strangled cry, we beg God--take me instead.

How? How do you press on after a loss like that? After swallowing a defeat so massive? 

Some things we never get over. We never quite recover.

You'd have to tell your story. Through tears and heart-shredded insides, you'd have to open your mouth and tell what you witnessed. Tell what you did right, to no avail, and what you did wrong. Tell what you wish you'd have done. Tell what you wish you hadn't done. You wouldn't even be allowed a chance to hide, to dig into the mattress and cover yourself with feathers, fear, fault, agony, failure, fury. 

A chance to cry out--"Oh, God ... why?" All alone. 

But then you get alone. And you cry and cry and cry. You sleep and sleep and sleep. You wish away time and time and more time. You wish to never wake up. You wish to wake up and find it all a nightmare.

But one day, you'll open your eyes from the deepest of sleep. You'll find the sun shining slight rays again. The waters won't look so murky, you'll see blue. You'll see the ducks and not the deep. You'll see the glory of the waters and not the gore. 

You'll forgive yourself and forgive others. 

You'll know you're forgiven.

You are forgiven. Forgiven by yourself, by others, by God.

You'll accept that we don't know everything, we can't see everything, we can't understand everything, we can't be everything. We're fallible, human, faulty, frail.

And a thing called hope will flood your soul. It'll reach out and grab hold of you. And you'll allow it to soak you in. Take you under. Deep. A new day.

You'll look into the eyes of those remaining, of those you love, of those who love you, of those who don't want to live this life without you.

And you'll realize you have something to offer once again.

Things will be different. But it'll prove the best place on earth once again. 

It will.

Trust it will.

Giving Up My Life--WMU Blog Post

“We aren’t sure what’s wrong,” said the emergency room doctor.

I’d been experiencing four days of abdominal pain accompanied by a low-grade temperature.

“Your doctor said it could be your appendix leaking infection.” He paused. “But we aren’t sure what that soft mass is.”

Cancer?

This is just a snippet. I'm blogging today over at WMU. 

And I'd love for you to join me there. 

2014 Surgery ... I look a fright. I felt a fright, too.