Bathroom Epiphany

I woke one morning this week remembering that (once again) I had fallen asleep mid-prayer and, though I believe God knows what’s on my mind even after I fall asleep, I felt compelled to try to finish what I'd started.

As I prayed for Mom, I realized I was confused and conflicted about what to pray for. On the one hand, I want to help her hold hope for as complete a recovery as possible. In my mind, that would look like remission of the cancer, her ability to live as independently as possible, and to enjoy friends and many of her favorite activities, such as chewing real food, going out to lunch, and shopping.

On the other hand, I fear the lumps on her neck signal the return of the cancer, and I pray that she will not have to endure more surgery, the potential for pneumonia and other complications, a long hospital stay, and a repetition of all the physical and occupational therapies. A part of me wants to ask God to take his child as quickly and painlessly as possible.

A prayer for recovery and a prayer for release seemed diametrically opposed. It struck me as two different kinds of energy – the buoyancy of hope and the passivity of giving up. And, once again, I thought about the kind of energy I would want surrounding me if I were in Mom’s shoes. Hopeful, healing energy, please!

However, feeling my own energy draining, my hope for Mom’s recovery sagging, I wondered how I could possibly support her.

Later, in the bathroom – the room that so often inspires creative thinking – as I brushed my teeth, it came to me. Where is my faith if I can’t see the energy and hope and joy in life eternal? As my pastor said, as he preached on the joyous vision in Revelations, “what’s so bad about the end of the world?”

“Wait a minute,” I argue with myself, as my electric toothbrush buzzes over my teeth, “am I just rationalizing my apparent lack of faith and hope for her recovery?”

“Perhaps,” I respond. “But that’s the way we humans are created,” I tell myself. We are hard-wired to try to understand and explain the mysteries of our existence. We are created with the capacity to feel emotion and to want to feel joy. And, no doubt, there’s a certain amount of cultural conditioning going on here, too.

Finding the energy to surround Mom with hope – for whatever comes next – is a matter of resetting my own “faithometer.” It won’t be easy, but with God’s help all things are possible.

Sue

Personality and Faith

I actually wrote this and tried to post it early Sunday morning but my Internet connection was disrupted, perhaps because of a wild windstorm in the area. It could have been divine intervention, God’s way of telling me I hadn’t thought deeply enough about this topic. But now, more than 24 hours later, I’m not sure my thinking is any deeper or any different.

In the last few days, as I’ve watched my mother’s condition worsen, get better, and worsen again, I’ve realized that I’m a “glass half-full” kind of person. That is, I tend to find hope in the slightest signs of improvement, rather than despairing over what someone else might take as equally valid signs of deterioration. As I recognized this mindset, which may be partly due to innate personality, I also realized that some might call it “denial” or “naïveté.”

I also think it has something to do with faith. For I believe in a God that works miracles; not that He always gives us what we wish for. I can’t begin to understand His reasons and His timing. I know my 81-year-old mother with chronic lung problems isn’t going to live forever. I know that she has a tough road ahead – healing her lungs and facing radiation treatments for the cancer. I’m not afraid of her dying, especially if the alternative is perpetual life support via ventilator and feeding tube. But I have hope for a better day before the end.

And I believe that ill people need all the positive energy they can get. If I were in her shoes (and someday I will be), I’d rather have people standing around my bed with hope in their eyes, rather than guarded whispers about the problems and risks. Then again, I also would want people around me with the courage to say good-bye (and pull the plug if necessary) when my energy is not to be found in this world.

Sue