There’s a certain smell of soap that makes me cringe.
The sharp edge of antiseptic
That baptized our hands as we went in and out of the room on B6/6.
It’s the smell of long nights when I fought against the drone of the beeping machines
That kept us awake inside our nightmare.
I couldn’t make you better
I couldn’t give you relief
But what killed me? I couldn’t even give you a good night’s sleep.
As I raged against protocol, I felt myself small and powerless--
I saw the truth--
And the truth scared me.
On B6/6, the machines could not be silenced, but I was silent
As I lay on the fold-out bed
So angry I thought I’d die
Raging and raging and small and powerless and scared.
I took a walk by the river today under the chilly gray clouds
That promise an end to long summer days in the yard
Reading and drinking beer and trying not to think about how
Small and powerless and scared I was.
Then, the sun broke through the clouds.
I stopped as it lay a gentle hand on my face,
Shining on the same cheek that lay raging against the hospital pillow,
Touching with its golden clarity all the crooked lines that have sewn themselves into my heart
and saying,
Look, it will be okay.
Then the clouds closed and the warmth went away.
I’ve heard that time heals
But I still cringe at a certain smell of soap.
Transplant Day
It’s the day we’ve been waiting for for the past year and a half. Today at 10am, Heidi gets hooked up with needles and infused with the bone marrow Erica donated a few weeks ago. From here, we enter the highest risk part of her journey. But it’s also the moment that her journey of recovery can finally begin.
Of course, we had no idea it would take a year and a half to get to this point. We imagined a couple months–maybe three at most. It’s a good thing we couldn’t see into the future or we might have despaired tons earlier.
From the beginning, Heidi received a prophetic word from her good friend Amanda, who has been a steady source of encouragement for all of us since cancer hit. You can read about that here, but it was essentially Isaiah 54, the promise of complete healing and that God would further Heidi’s ministry through this.
It’s been a long time since I’ve opened to Isaiah 54, but this morning, on Day Zero, it felt appropriate. As I sat in my robe, drinking coffee and looking out at the summer-green trees lining our street, the familiar words hit me in a fresh way.
For the children of the desolate woman will be more
than the children of her that is married, says the Lord.
Enlarge the site of your tent,
and let the curtains of your habitations be stretched out;
do not hold back; lengthen your cords
and strengthen your stakes.
The word ‘desolate’ hit me. We didn’t really know what that felt like in December of 2018. But now? Absolutely. And yet right there is the promise that the desolate woman will bear more fruit than the ‘married’ one–the one who has been happily chugging along as planned. Enlarge the site of your tent. Heidi’s pain and suffering WILL bring people to God. Her spiritual house will grow larger–she’ll have to expand–because God will bring more people than she could ever have planned for.
Years ago, way before cancer, Heidi told me that she felt deeply convicted that her ministry wasn’t just being a great mom and raising her kids in the way of Jesus–she felt the calling of Isaiah 49: “It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob…I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.”
These verses thrilled Heidi. To the end of the earth! And here in Isaiah 54 is that promise–that her cancer journey will tie into this calling she felt long ago. That her house will expand in a way that wouldn’t have happened if she had been the ‘happily married’ woman pictured, with the normal life. Her desolation will produce growth and multiplication.
Do not fear, for you will not be ashamed;
do not be discouraged, for you will not suffer disgrace;
for you will forget the shame of your youth,
and the disgrace of your widowhood you will remember no more.
For your Maker is your husband,
the Lord of hosts is his name;
the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer,
the God of the whole earth he is called.
I am terribly afraid we will end up being fools. That we might be one of those stories of “Oh yeah, they thought that God spoke, but … well, it was a self-comfort mechanism, so let this be a cautionary tale about not speaking lightly about ‘hearing God’.” And yet I see the reminder of ‘you will not be ashamed’ and ‘you will not suffer disgrace’ … and I’m comforted.
Not to mention the disgraces of cancer–the pain, the needles, the weakness, the awful suffering–Heidi will remember no more. That’s how big her Redeemer is.
For the Lord has called you
like a wife forsaken and grieved in spirit,
like the wife of a man’s youth when she is cast off,
says your God.
For a brief moment I abandoned you,
but with great compassion I will gather you.
In overflowing wrath for a moment
I hid my face from you,
but with everlasting love I will have compassion on you,
says the Lord, your Redeemer.
This is the one that got me. For a brief moment I abandoned you. For a moment I hid my face from you. If you’ve read any of my recent blog posts, you’ll know this is exactly (and I mean exactly) how I’ve felt. Abandoned and forgotten by God. Cast aside. And then I read this heartening promise–but with great compassion I will gather you. Yes, God! Gather us up!
O afflicted one, storm-tossed, and not comforted,
I am about to set your stones in antimony,
and lay your foundations with sapphires.
I will make your pinnacles of rubies,
your gates of jewels,
and all your wall of precious stones.
If there are any words that can describe our journey, but mostly Heidi’s, it’s afflicted, storm-tossed and not comforted.
And then, these words from God … I AM ABOUT TO. Things are about to change. Something big is about to happen.
I was sharing these thoughts with Erica as we talked on the phone while I drove to work this morning. Suddenly Erica said, “now my dream makes sense!”
(Okay, this is when I really start crying)
Last night she dreamed that us three sisters were getting ready to head out of town for a sisters’ weekend together–grocery shopping, getting treats, that kind of thing. Then, Lauren (the transplant coordinator in real life) called Erica and said, “It’s time!” Part of the weekend was going to be the transplant. We were in the parking lot of our apartment complex, where the transplant was going to happen, and there was a tube connecting Heidi and Erica. But it wasn’t blood or bone marrow traveling through the tube–it was life essence flowing between them.
At this point, there were lots of people around. Then, everyone started having babies–people of every color and nationality–people Erica didn’t know or recognize. Erica was having kids, the transplant coordinator suddenly had four children. People were getting pregnant right and left. Erica went over to some friends’ house, and they were like, “oh my gosh, we totally had this baby because of that!”
As Erica described a dream that she at first had thought was just kind of silly, we suddenly realized it was about Isaiah 54. Spiritual fertility. Heidi’s cancer journey resulting in spiritual life and birth that will multiply beyond what Heidi can imagine. The calling Heidi felt in Isaiah 49 all those years ago, fulfilled. To the end of the earth.
I’m terrified. I’m trusting. I’m comforted. And still terrified. Adrenaline buzzes through me every time I remember that today is The Day. I can hardly catch my breath. I want to cry, and I can hardly gather a sentence together to pray coherently. In the end, I only have these words–
God, do what you said.
And I hear the response of Psalm 33–
Let all the earth fear the Lord;
let all the inhabitants of the world stand in awe of him.
For he spoke, and it came to be; he commanded, and it stood firm.
Amen, and let it be so!