I really haven’t written in a while or blogged. Do I even remember how? It seems like some other part of my brain, some other room of this house, I have neglected or forgotten how to even unlock it. Where is the key-pen?
I know You’ve given writing to me as my heart’s song, as one of the ways of prayer and yet I have neglected it. I have made it become the lesser part of me, the less important part of my life as I’ve become busy again, the “adult life.” I always ebb and flow when it comes to writing—some days, years I see the value of it and others not. And yet it’s a piece of me that You have designed for me to be a writer, a writer of my soul, and You know more than me that this is a way to connect with You. Why do I see that as less valuable?
Writing does take time; it is a discipline, as all writers know. I’m seeing that more and more, that I need to be disciplined with writing, taking time for myself to write. How many people encouraged me through the Spirit to keep writing, to not stop even after treatment? And how many times did I recognize that call was from Him through other people, and yet I ignored it?
I need to begin to write for myself again and not necessarily just for others.
I know blogging began as a way to communicate to others in mass quantity of how I felt, how I was doing while in the midst of treatment while energy to speak was few. But then blogging transformed into something more for me. In fact, I forgot most of the time that others could read and see what I wrote, and I would be slightly shocked when someone commented to me in person about my virtual diary writing. And when I look back, it’s because writing that blog transformed from communication going outward to communication going inward and upward, a communication between myself, my soul and the Spirit that I let others in on and see, a literal word-mirror to my soul.
But what happens when you stop crafting word-mirrors of your soul for yourself?
You stop looking in and seeing.
Oh, but I need to see, and not only just see, but examine my heart just as closely as the doctors do for my scans. Yes, these are the prescribed scans for my heart, not just their echocardiogram and EKGs and MRIs and CAT scans. I need a full scanning of myself, of my mind, of my heart more and more frequently to recognize and diagnose my anxious thoughts that are just as damning as the cancer cell themselves. My pen is my biopsy needle; my computer screen is the image projection of my heart, emotions, mind. Oh, how I truly can’t envision them tangibly and see them without writing, sentence-scan structure.
Help me to map and see those sentence-scans of my heart and mind, and help the pictures to come out just as clear as all the others I go to the hospital for.
I reclaim this time, this vitual space, these sentence-scans of my heart and mind for not just my physical health but for my overall being.
12 Jesus said, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. 13 But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.”
It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.
I am no longer “sick,” now 9 months cancer free, revealing clarity in my window-skeletal scans. And yet, I am learning that I still need The Doctor. Perhaps even more than even before.
And I, the stubborn person that I am, hate admitting that.
And I, the miserably stubborn person that I am, rejoice and am grateful in admitting that.
See, my body may be being healed of its cancer cells, but I am still sick. I still have this sin-sickness that, at times, seems to be relapsing almost worse. Cause really, that is what this moment in time seems to be: a relapse of thought, of freedom.
Oh, how my body and mind seem to be switching on me with their relapses. They are not in a marathon race, marathon runners and partners side-by-side, but instead they are relay runners, passing off the relapse-relay baton to another.
And yes, this may seem silly but oh how I can’t explain how true my experience is. While in chemotherapy treatment, my heart and mind were being healed with grace as well, receiving IV drips of grace and renewal. And now the treatments are gone, and the freedom of mind is gone. I am going back to racing, racing it seems, before chemo life patterns of ways of living. The hectic, I-am-always-running-and-never-ceasing way of life. The life of “productivity,” even though I know this life is producing death within me.
I’ve been r-reading old blog posts, the bound and printed version I have for myself. It’s crazy how at times I crave to be back in those moments of rest and dependence. Crazy, right? To long to go back to that place in time. But it’s not the chemo, or the scans, or the energy draining that I want to go back to. It’s the moments of rest and dependence. Because now with my body getting better, it can be harder to remember that I am but dust, that I am dependent, that I am inept, that I am just a vessel. Somehow chemotherapy just heightens all those thoughts, brings your weak state to an undeniable state.
And yet, even without those chemotherapy drugs waning me, I am still weak. I am still sick. Will I take time to stubbornly or humbly acknowledge this?
It’s also hard to determine how much strength I really do have. All of my other young adult cancer patients around me also talk about lack of energy, lack of clarity. How much do I or should I compare myself to them? And I do not doubt for a moment that they are feeling those ways still, even years after treatment. Yet, its incredible how much that IV pole drip affirms to you that yes, you are weak, and no, you aren’t crazy for being unable to do everything that you desire to do.
Since when did I finish treatment and think that I was invincible?
Or really, when did I start ignoring that I am a weak creature, and in turn I am making myself weaker by refusing these things.
I can always accept and understand the fact that I am a weak human, just like I did back during treatment, but it takes a lot more humility now it seems without that drug dragging me into submission. Yes, the stubbornness in my own heart is growing, the strength of the stubborn.
Wrestle my Jacob-heart and submit.