From a Fellow Traveler

I am no fan of Lent. The songs are depressing. The message is grim. It’s so bad, even the word Alleluia doesn’t want to go to church; it just packs its bags and says I will see you in the spring.

You know what doesn’t make Lent any better: going through what feels like a never-ending cancer journey in the middle of it.

This last Sunday, the preacher used the story of Jesus in the wilderness in his sermon. After he was baptized, Jesus spent 40 days wandering in the desert and being tempted. Three temptations in total: one to stop feeling hungry; another to prove his power (and God’s power), and a final one to trade heavenly for earthly power.

If you are the Son of God…

I haven’t written lately because I feel like I have been out in the wilderness for the last month.

Since my last post:

• A classmate of my kid lost their parent suddenly.
• My grandmother passed away.
• My other grandmother needed a heart procedure.
• My wife’s mother was diagnosed with cancer.
• A good friend’s wife was also diagnosed with cancer.

At this point, even as I write this, it doesn’t seem like this story is real. It’s all a bit unbelievable. I feel my life has turned into a bad country song (and thank God my truck is still running and I don’t have a dog).

So when I heard the preacher telling the story of the wilderness and temptation, it was depressing. I told you, I don’t like Lent, because I feel like I am also being constantly filled with doubt lately. And I know mine won’t end in 40 days.

I don’t relate to all the physical aspects of the temptations of Jesus, but I feel the underlying mental doubts at the heart of the temptation.

If God was all loving, he wouldn’t want your wife or any of his creation to suffer; but we do, so he isn’t loving. God wouldn’t even feed his own Son.

If God was all powerful, he would want to stop the endless suffering of his creation. Even his own Son felt forsaken.

You don’t need God. Walk away. He isn’t doing anything; the doctors and the medical treatments are working miracles. God has abandoned you; look around you at all the pain and hurt in this world. Face it: God doesn’t exist.

This is how doubt and temptation feels right now, how it needles into your mind and tries to break you down.

In a dark mirror image of what the Psalm says, I feel I am walking in the valley of the shadow of death, but I do have fear, because I am wondering if You are still with us.

Probably the most insidious part of all the doubt and temptation is once you are broken down and feel you have nowhere to turn but God, that nagging little whisper reminds you how ungrateful you are. 

You are full of all this doubt, but you have it so much better than so many others in this world. You should be ashamed. Look at you, doubting God, and he gives you shelter. He feeds you. He has placed an army of physicians all around you. And you doubt God! He is disgusted by you and your attitude. Run. Hide.

That’s the real evil part. The doubting of God’s power? Well, that is probably on me. But when I get to the end of my rope and I have nowhere else to go, wrestling with the doubt that there isn’t any forgiveness for us, that our problems are small potatoes and insignificant to God: that is the real faith-killer.

As I write this, I am looking at IV bags of medicine hanging above my wife as she gets infused with this poison. I know it is for the best, but I also know she was exhausted and nauseous and that she really doesn’t want to feel like that again. I know she has had to change all her plans for this weekend because she knows she will be wiped out and activities she had with the kids months ago she won’t be there.

Does it matter in the big picture? OK, probably not; but it matters to her now.

Cancer never seems to stop taking from you.

I am looking through her binder trying to find the number for one of the contacts in Cleveland. If you have ever had to deal with cancer, you probably know how big this binder is. 

I flip past the first few pages and notice a marketing flyer from Cleveland Clinic. Written in big bold text is the catch phrase:

For Every Care in the World.

That’s a good marketing slogan, fitting on a banner over a hospital.

But even more so, as we navigate the season of Lent, I wonder if the same banner would be fitting for hanging above a Savior. Maybe right up there next to the INRI.

I want to believe it would.

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