Not sure I am there.... blessing the thing that is cracking me open. In some corner of my heaving heart I can acknowledge its truth, but right now its only with a fair amount of bitter acuquiecense. Forrest was discharged Sunday morning. The chemo had cleared his system to a satisfactory level and his kidneys were functioning well. It was safe to go home. But the chemo's ramifications on the rest of his body were just starting to rear their ugly heads. His tough little frame has withstood 6 months of aggressive chemo remarkably well, but eventually the Reaper has to be paid, and he's come calling now. Severe bone pain in Forrest's back, sides, hips, and jaw have made him barely want to move for the last three days. But the worst part are the sores appearing all over his mouth and down his throat that make him virtually unable to chew or swallow. He has barely eaten or drank in days. Yesterday we were in doctors' offices here in Traverse City for most of the afternoon getting fluids and being re-evaluated, and then trying to create a better pain management plan with more heavy narcotics. His oncology team in Grand Rapids acknowledges that this happens to some kids with the high dose methotrexate coupled with the multiple other chemos he's getting. It will hopefully peak in intensity today and tomorrow and should start getting better by the end of the week.... Just in time for us to go back in for Round Two next Tuesday. After the last 72 hours though, they are at least agreeing the quantity of this high dose poison needs to be adjusted. This is crazy. Watching Forrest suffer through this barely-controlled agony has been a reality check I was a hundred percent not prepared for... the kind of reality check that feels like a strong right hook sucker punch just when you thought the fight was turning in your favor.
"Bless the thing that broke you down and cracked you open, because the world needs you open."
I'm not sure what being this cracked open offers the world. And I'm not sure I can bless it. I haven't seen him in this much pain since those couple of bad days during Induction in Spokane. Every writhe, every feeble moan, every confused, tear-filled, pleading look ... I feel like someone is sawing on my exposed nerves with a dull, serrated knife.
As I write all this out, I want there to be something that turns these thoughts more positive. That gives meaning to this pain. I'm desperately looking for it. Praying for it. I stumbled upon a verse today that could not have been coincidence, but I didn't want it. I kept searching.... flipping through devotionals, inspirational books, encouraging cards, wanting to be told something else. Wanting to hear something more pitying, more empathetic, more willing to let me sit in this mucky hole of angst and sorrow. But I keep coming back to this verse: "Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you." (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18).
I really don't like that verse right now. I really want to be told something different.
But there it is again, this time in Romans 5: "We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance and endurance produces character, and character produces hope."
Seriously God? I stare at my son sleeping on the couch next to me. Even in sleep his brow is furrowed and his breathing labored. He fidgets uncomfortably, clutching his lovey tighter. I just wish it was me suffering and not him. Maybe I could handle that verse better. Where is the justice in a 4-yr old suffering? There is a nudge on my heart, a whisper reminding me that the pain Forrest is in is NOT God's will. We're in this ridiculously fallen ... ridiculously falling apart ... world. The pain and heart ache we all have was NOT what God had wanted for any of us. Forrest's cancer is NOT of God. His agony grieves God too. But this verse, this verse I really don't like, maybe isn't about Forrest's suffering at all. Maybe it is quite simply about MY response to it. I've often cried out, "What do you want of me, God?" This. This is what He wants of me. A response that —no matter the circumstance—points to my joy in Him, my faith in Him, my trust in Him. In spite of Forrest's pain, I have hope. Suffering shouldn't take away our joy. It should give us context for it.
Bless the thing that cracks me open. I'm not blessing it. I'm not quite there. Rejoice always. Not doing that either. But I'm believing its possible. I would like it to be. Maybe that's an ok start.