I woke early this morning – my favorite time of day. Mercies are new, missteps not yet taken, and I slip into the small library that John has graciously surrendered to me.
This is my 21st year of living ‘cancer free’, a term my first oncologist warned would probably never apply to me. When I sat to read, with a small heater at my feet and shutters open to the emerging sky, I was thinking of the Lord’s mercy and the miracle that was my recovery.
Most cancer survivors are unlikely to forget the details of their initial diagnosis or their attending physicians. Our bizarre trek following Oncology signs inside Duke Medical Center led us to my first oncologist. He was young, newly married, and would be leaving before my treatment would end. He told us they were moving to the northwest for an exciting position there.
He has crossed my mind some in the 21 years since I met him. I don’t think about the cancer too much these days but this morning, as I began to read, I thought of him and wondered (for some strange reason) if he was still practicing? I grabbed my iPad and found that he is the head of oncology at a center in Portland.
When I saw his name in print, along with his 100% 5-star ratings, I burst into tears. It surprised me. I didn’t know what pulled that emotional trigger. Was it the miracle, the fear, the 25% survival rate, the horror of the ‘red devil’ chemotherapy? I had no idea why my heart reacted that way.
For a good while after my treatments and full recovery, I would have to walk away if I saw a lady who bore the side effects of chemo. Some months later, I became able to approach them and have a short conversation. (It is so important to feel ‘normal’ and not to feel that folks avoid you.)
Before my cancer diagnosis, I was merely an onlooker. After my journey, I became the lady with the scarf, chalky skin, and absence of brows and lashes. I empathized with others because I had been there; I knew how it felt.
All through scripture, Jesus’ compassion is well chronicled:
- When Jesus saw Mary weeping for Lazarus, He was “deeply moved” and later, once more deeply moved.” He knew that He would raise Lazarus, but first He entered her suffering. (John 11)
- When entering the city of Nain, Jesus met a funeral procession: a widow burying her only son. When He saw her, His heart went out to her. (Luke 7)
- When He saw the multitudes, He was moved with compassion for them, because they were weary and scattered, like sheep having no shepherd. (Matthew 9)
- For we do not have a high priest who cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities. (Hebrews 4)
- And, of course, Isaiah’s well-known prophecy in chapter 53:
He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.
- Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows: yet we considered Him stricken, smitten by God. But He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities: His punishment brought us peace and with His stripes we are healed.
- He was oppressed… led like a lamb to the slaughter.
- By oppression and judgment He was taken away.
- He was cut off from the land of the living.
- He was assigned a grave with the wicked.
Perhaps my heart was overwhelmed with all of it – the memories, the fear, the miracle, the support, the slow churning of a heart moving away from self-interest and toward eternal purposes. It was a surrender that demanded that He increase, even as I decrease. My eyes which had focused forward now lifted upward, to the hills, from whence came my help and my surrender.
He understands when we are navigating storms – He spoke to them. He hears us when we cry out to Him – He made that a promise. He bottles our tears when we weep, and He identifies with every ounce of grief we bear.
And occasionally, perhaps in the quiet of an early morning, His Spirit reminds us of a landmark, a road sign, a place where our hearts waited until He showed us His mercy.
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