I’ve been feeling sorry for myself the past couple of days.
Yesterday at church I saw my name in the bulletin for prayer, and though I love that people care about me and pray for me, it made me sad that it’s my name there. It was selfish and self serving. I certainly don’t want someone else’s name there instead. But it made me cry, made me cry out to God about how desperately I hate cancer.
When I got home and made lunch and ate it by myself, I began to feel that this life that I am clinging so hard to isn’t really worth it. I’ve spent most of my life planning for the future, and if I don’t know whether or not I have a future to plan for, what’s the point? Sitting there by myself, I again felt the sting of no husband, no children, multiplied by cancer.
I felt alone and felt sorry for myself, eating ratatouille by myself on a Sunday afternoon.
This morning, I was sitting in another doctor’s office, starting to feel sorry for myself again as the waiting room filled up around me with aging, shrinking people, hobbling in with walkers, leaning on the arm of a daughter or sister to help them into the chair. I’m living my old age too early, I thought to myself. And I didn’t feel any better when a young couple came in later. At least they have each other, I thought, self pity creating a stench around me.
As it happened, I had just finished filling out the last of the office medical forms when I remembered I had brought along Luci Shaw’s Breath for the Bones. Having a few minutes to wait, I cracked open the book to begin forming some thoughts for my book club post. Chapter 8, Learning to Risk.
The words about Luci’s sailing trip across Lake Michigan were only just registering in my mind when I realized that they were for me. Today.
The following is a story of my struggle with risk, tides, reefs, and islands, which I think speaks to faith and to challenges, and also speaks to the life of the artist, to those who wish to live in creative challenge, charting a course and not knowing how it might all play out.
Can I really look at my life and imagine that this cancer, this disease that keeps haunting and taunting me, might actually be an adventure of a lifetime?
::
Yesterday, I jotted down a simple question in my journal; it was directed to Jesus. “Is there any hope that I will be alive at age 50?” Having managed one milestone last year – alive at 40 – for some reason I am already looking to the next one.
But where does this question come from? Is my life only worthwhile if it is given in 10 year increments? What of 41? or 42? Or 47, even? How well will this theory hold up when I am 70 or 80, when 10 years would be more of a miracle than an expectation? Am I really willing to risk every subsequent year for the thrill of the milestone? If I make it to 50, chances are I’ll just want to make it to 60.
Reading back on my journal from yesterday, I realize I need a better plan. Adding up years is a fool’s way to make a life count. Rather than checking off days as if this life is just a prison sentence I need to be released from, I’d rather think of life as a classroom, filled with endless opportunities to learn. Or even better, I’d rather be standing next to the wall with a pen in hand, marking off the ways I’ve grown.
When I stop growing, I’ll be with Jesus. I’m praying that I’m 10 feet tall before that day comes.
Growth. Creativity. By definition they are never static. All growth implies and requires change. And change suggests risk, a move into unknown territory, a step into the dark. This sounds dangerous, and it may certainly bring its perils with it, but it is also inevitable. – Luci Shaw
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I told the doctor today, a urologist, that I had been trying to avoid him for years.
“Nothing personal,” I said, apologetically.
“Understandable,” he said, as he jotted a note in my chart.
As I left the office later, my blood pressure having recovered from white-coat syndrome, I had this thought — I really did — what if I just abandoned myself to this. The whole thing. To the doctor’s visits and the surgeries and the radiation therapy. What if I just accepted the blood draws and the urine samples. What if these medical professionals became like teachers, and what if I learned more from them than just medical jargon.
In other words, what if I quit resisting and instead grew up into the kind of person that sees hard times as the only way I will ever truly become like Jesus?
::
If I were to read a book about a 40-year-old woman who, despite health problems, managed to live a meaningful, creative, God honoring life, how would that story go? What would the author include in that narrative that would make me think she was living well, that would keep me from feeling sorry for her and just make me feel thankful?
This is the story I want Jesus to write for me. This is the story I want others to read of my life.
Today, I am writing about journaling and risk taking, along with others from theHighCalling.org. We are reading and writing together from Breath for the Bones – Art, Imagination, and Spirit: Reflections on Creativity and Faith, by Luci Shaw. Visit theHighCalling.org today to see what others are saying about chapters 7 and 8 of the book. Then, pick up a copy for yourself and read/write along with us. Next week we will cover chapters 9 and 10.
Photo by chema.foces, via Flickr, used with permission under the Creative Commons License.
Charity, wow! Your post instantly took me back to the moment — time, place, even smell — when I opened my hands and finally accepted my injury as permanent, accepting the pain, accepting the limitations and knowing in that moment that my life could either glorify God or sink into bitterness and dispair. Life with chronic pain isn’t easy, but it is absolutely worth it! You are an incredible writer, Charity, and your words deeply blessed me.
Visiting via Glynn and now with tears in my eyes. When I was 22, they said I’d have 20 more … in another couple of weeks it will be 44 more.
You’ve found treasure in what you’ve discovered, Charity, and you’ve shared that treasure with us. Thank you.
Coming to this conversation late…
but I would like to hold your hand and look you in the eye and say ‘thank you.’ Gut wrenching, honest and true. The moment you said ‘what if’ I just accepted it all as part of the adventure… you had me. You made me think of the sailing trip… when these unbearable, scary storms come, and the hard winds blow … you have just chosen to batten down the hatches, set your sails and turn into the wind. When a sailor’s sails are not set properly, they flop around and we go nowhere…
not you my dear… you are moving forward…
sending you love, and prayers.
Wow, love this post. This is one of my favorites I have ever read of yours. And that is saying a lot, because I always look forward to reading your blog. It shows a beautiful heart that is being used by the Lord.
Good job, Charity. I’m proud of you.
Surrender is no small thing.
Love, Amanda
Your words became your name – Charity = ‘the voluntary giving to others in need.’ Thank you, because I needed them in ways you’ll never know.
The phrase ‘hang in there’ can be a hollow palliative…but I believe it can also mean something very deep, christ-like even.
Hang in there, Charity…hang in there.
This is absolutely astonishing. Partly because it goes far beyond you into the lives of other people, the questions they need to be asking and the life they need to be embracing. I believe it may be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever written.
Drive on over with the ratatouille (or tomato pie!), and we can eat and talk and live out these lives together as best we can, step by step…however Jesus, our author of salvation who lives His live through us, wishes.
I’m honored to be in your life right now, intersecting…even as these words flow in and through the story.
Your words sing, even when they mourn.
we are really good about dishing out prayer and love and support, but not so good taking it.
Sweet you, take the love
I feel so privileged that you share these thoughts with us, Charity. This is such a beautiful post. I don’t know what Jesus is up to, but I think you are on to something here.
Love to you, you brave lady. Thanks for being brave with these words.
Charity,
Your questions here brought me to a stop. I’ll be reflecting on that last question…what would that story look like?
Thank you.
I’ve wondered frequently if that objectivity, that ability to step back and view one’s story while living it….is it something EVERYONE does or a WRITER thing or a consequence of a tremendous grief that one must find a way to work with. Perhaps a combination.
It has, for me, at times been a wonderful gift.
You are the first I’ve seen capture it so well, Charity.
Good morning, Charity. What a wonderful reflection, so beautifully expressed. I’m praying for you this morning…that as you walk through these days of uncertainty, that you will be writing the powerful, amazing, grace-filled, joy-infused story of a woman living life to the fullest as she leans on the Lord who loves her more than any other. Your Jesus sister, Patricia
You ask such a good question “…how would that story go?” I have to ask myself this, too. Our stories can be about us, or him. To see the difficulties as a classroom…to see the story Jesus would write…this is brave, my friend, and inspires me.
I could identify with your post. About being cut off from your “age group” and experiencing old age too soon. I learned one summer though that identifying with people older than me was a strange gift. I am glad you are working through this, even though it is really hard.
Charity, you are a gifted writer. Keep writing it all. Write the blood draws. Write the ratatouille. Write the loneliness. Write the wretched sympathy. Write it for a year or 10 or 50.
We love you!
It’s hard to think of difficult things as gifts. I’ve been struggling with a pinched nerve in my back, and there’s finally some improvement. When I was awake last night at 2 a.m. with my calf hurting, it occurred to me that, since I couldn’t sleep anyway, perhaps I could be doing something else. Like praying. And the pain became a gift.