Recently in Faith Category

I have, I think, just one more round of chemo left.

When I go through my pill popping regimen tomorrow morning it will be the last time for this particular round of drugs. Twenty-three rounds, it seems, is enough.

What comes next? We'll go back to what we did after the surgery. We'll watch and measure and see if the remaining area grows any once we stop. If it does we'll probably need to zap it with radiation. That we will eventually have to do something else is likely because mine is a chronic condition, not an acute one.

But that will be then. This is now.

I'm still in a round of chemo and therefore the world is a bit fuzzier than it normally is. As such clarity isn't necessarily found all that easily.

On the other hand though, there is a clarity that comes with chemo that is invaluable.

It is my monthly reminder of mortality, my monthly reset button that brings me back to the point of remembering what really matters and what really doesn't and the difference between the two. It is kind of stunning that I need this monthly reminder. You'd think, really, that that brain tumor surgery or the regular checkups would do the trick - and they have and do in their own way. But the chemo is different, it is just more regular.

Not that Jesus really needs anymore affirmation but the older I get the more awed I am by him and by his wisdom.

His parable of the seed and sower couldn't be more accurate - there is seed that falls on ground that is rocky and ground that is full of weeds. It falls on thin soil and rich soil. All of the seeds bloom but only the one in fertile soil takes hold and produces a bumper crop.

Jesus explained it this way,

The seed is the word of God. Those along the path are the ones who hear, and then the devil comes and takes away the word from their hearts, so that they may not believe and be saved. Those on the rock are the ones who receive the word with joy when they hear it, but they have no root. They believe for a while, but in the time of testing they fall away. The seed that fell among thorns stands for those who hear, but as they go on their way they are choked by life's worries, riches and pleasures, and they do not mature. But the seed on good soil stands for those with a noble and good heart, who hear the word, retain it, and by persevering produce a crop.

God teaches us lessons - sews seeds - constantly. The question is whether we receive it and whether we really live it.

I pray that the spiritual seeds that he has sewn through these last two years of chemo have fallen in fertile soil and that in the years ahead they will produce a crop of goodness.

Livvy is going through an "I'm scared" phase at night. She wants us to sleep in her bed and check on her all the time. As I write, her shades are up, a little nightlight is on, and she's hugging her Raggedy Ann...and a dozen other stuffed animals... simultaneously.

A few nights ago as I was tucking her in she said, "Daddy. I want to see the angels."

I didn't quite get it.

"I want to see the angels that protect me. That way I won't be so scared."

I felt like saying, "Yeah, me too." But I don't think that she would have understood me. So I told her that no, she couldn't see them and I couldn't either but that we knew they are there.

Were she older I would have told her about the one or two times that I felt angelic presence in an almost palpable way.

One of them was 5 1/2 years ago as I recuperated from brain surgery (but not on the sensory part of the brain - just in case you were thinking I was imaging things). Kim and I were so close to God, so dependent on Him for everything. There was no life apart from him. Every night before we went to sleep we spent a good bit of time praying not just for ourselves but for others and also just marveling at God's goodness.

In the middle of one of those nights I was turning over when I became aware of a presence - an almost electric presence - in the room. It didn't feel like anything I'd ever come across before. It certainly wasn't malevolent. But neither did it exude any syrupy niceness. It felt weighty, certain, sturdy, good. As I said, it was was unlike anything I'd ever experienced.

I didn't make the full turn. Instead I just laid there on my back, fully conscious, feeling like I needed to be fully still. And so I was. I wanted to tap Kim and wake her up and try and explain it all but I had this sense that by the time I did that the experience would have been over, the force gone... the sense that this was for me.

But she isn't older and wouldn't get that story. So I hold her close and I am teaching her to pray and telling her about the Good Shepherd and all the while reminding myself that I can't see the angels either but I know that they are there.

Over the past few years, as I've lived with the brain tumor in my head, I've come across two fellow travelers - people who know, uniquely, the experience of living a life where your brain has already been picked.

One woman, Alicia Sky Kunerth, as diagnosed with the worst of all possible brain tumors in 2002. The other gentleman was diagnosed with a less aggressive tumor in 2004. The latter man, David Welch, started a website called 38lemon.com dedicated to spreading information and news about his own journey and about brain tumors in general.

This week each of them received news. One that they are tumor-free and the other that they are dying and nothing more can be done for them.

Sky is tumor-free. David is dying.

My mind doesn't know how to assimilate this news. I am SO happy for Sky. SO happy. She has lived her life so fully these years since diagnosis. Frankly, I want to be more like her - and not just in the medical sense.

But I am also so sad about David. Just so very, very sad.

Logically, of course, I understand. In understand the differences between us are just as distinct as the differences between everyone reading this and the child who died just now of malnutrition or starvation or preventable disease. I understand the difference between lives spared and lives lost. My mind gets that.

I suppose it is my heart... my soul... that doesn't get it.

Recently I was told a story about Steven Curtis Chapman, the Christian musician who lost his young daughter in an accident. A friend who went to the viewing at the funeral home brought his teenage daughter. When Steven saw her he bent down and looked into her eyes and said, "God is not surprised by this. God is not surprised." My friend's daughter crumpled in his arms, a bawling girl in a grieving father's arms.

I think, however, Steven has it right. God is not surprised. God grieves. God mourns. God shares our grief. But but he is not surprised. And he has been here before... it was God, after all, who grieved over losing his own Son... and he knew the end of the story.

This is what faith is ultimately about... not always understanding, but always believing that there is the One who does understand.

So I sit typing on my keyboard with a snoring Newfie sprawled out next to me, five-and-a-half-years after being diagnosed feeling a bit blue but generally quite fine - I ran for the first time in ages yesterday... and made a coffee cake too... the former made me feel like I could indulge in the latter... never knew how easy it was to make that crumbly part on top... potentially a bad thing to discover... rejoicing in the God who is greater than this universe no matter what the news might be, laid bare by the certainty of his love.

I think I'm battling the blues... and wrestling with God.

It is hard to figure out where one ends and the other begins.

The blues part is fairly straightforward - nothing feels quite right, decisions are hard to come by, enthusiasm for most things is low... the blues.

But so much of that feels like it is coming from this unexplained standoff I am having with God.

And that, of all things, seems the silliest of all things. Why on earth am I on a standoff with God? What is there to be standing off about? Yet that is what it feels like... it feels like I'm giving him the stiff arm... which, of course, is absurd. How do you give the Creator of the universe the stiff arm. Kind of like a turtle thinking he could hold back that 41-foot wave a surfer conquered the other day...

Not sure how to break through...

For the past year I've been working with friends to help them put together a new website. It is called Culture11.com and it is a good place to go. I encourage you to make it part of your browsing. But it is a site that is more clinical than personal - a site of the mind, not of the heart. That is good and needed and necessary. But it doesn't give me a chance to speak to the stuff that matters - the eternal stuff, the stuff of the God.

And so, though I am CEO of the other site, I return to writing here because I have missed it and the community it once was.

It may well be that I am writing into a reader-less blog at this point. We'll soon see I suppose. If that is the case then I maybe a new community will eventually form.

A friend wrote to me today, a very conservative friend, and asked if we were going to be alright after the election. I wrote something last night that is what I still think today. I wrote that all Americans should be proud at this moment. A nation that was conceived without recognizing African-Americans as people has now elected a black president. That should make everyone proud.

The thing I didn't write last night but wanted to say today is this - he is just the president. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less. He isn't pope. He isn't a priest or a pastor. He is our bureaucrat-in-chief. He is a part of our country, he isn't our country.

These are distinctions with significant differences. The state of our country will not be determined by our president. It will be determined by each of us.

So are we ok? Let's look in the mirror.