Buckle up, Buttercup
For as long as I can remember, I’ve hated roller coasters.
Last summer, I took the girls to Dollywood. Fear of rides aside, I am not a theme park person, so this was already an act of love. It wasn’t until we arrived inside the park and my teenagers immediately peeled off that the full weight of my situation hit me. I was the only one left for Eden.
My hands got clammy. My neck was suddenly hot, and I felt like my insides were on fire as I realized: I would have to ride the rides with her.
Eden is four, people.
The two of us waited in line for the Whistle Punk Chaser—labeled a junior coaster, genuinely designed for small children. I watched toddlers in line ahead of us get strapped in next to their parents, yet I poured sweat. My heart raced. Eden and I buckled into our seats.
We lurched forward and clacked up a small track. As we crested the small hill, I started screaming, and I didn’t stop shrieking until we came to a halt three laps later. Eden laughed and laughed: Mommy was even more entertaining than the ride!
Later, while we sat on a bench and ate popcorn together, Eden asked me, Why don’t you like roller coasters, Mommy?
Without skipping a beat, without even thinking, I responded.
I hate the feeling of being out of control, honey.
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Last week, we flew back out to Houston to MD Anderson for routine scans. I explained in the latest blog that I’ll go out there every 12 weeks. In December, I came home from Houston, and these early April scans were our first visit back. I was anxious and fearful. A nagging cough bothered me—was it allergies, or was it cancer? One of my friends who has walked with me as she’s dealt with her own breast cancer aptly calls it Scanxiety—this build-up of fear and restlessness leading up to a scan.
We had great appointments with my doctors. The scan was late in the evening, and it seemed to go smoothly. It was fast, which always makes me feel good.
We finished up late, went back to our hotel room, and slept. All seemed well.
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What does trust really mean? Especially when it comes to God?
It can’t be a denial of reality, of what the future may hold. It can’t be a sunny-side-up, rose-colored glasses approach to life and faith. An unthinking, unprocessed, untried faith is born out of a heart posture that never undergoes pain and is never forced to reckon why a good God allows suffering. If you believe in God, then you must face that problem with an open mind, not seeking pat, religious answers.
After dating for just a few months, a young couple told me they were getting married. Have you ever had a fight? I asked them. They told me they hadn’t, but they didn’t see why it mattered. When you’re in a relationship and only see the side you think is pretty, you don’t know the whole person. You must experience this relationship during a disagreement with your beloved to more completely know the person and understand your relationship.
I think knowing God is the same way.
In Prayer in the Night, author Tish Harrison Warren recounts one sentence of one sermon that she will never forget. A family in their small church had just lost their three-year-old boy to drowning, and the community was still reeling. Her pastor was preaching about trusting God, and he said: You cannot trust God to keep bad things from happening to you.
She writes I was dumbstruck. What Hunter said is self-evident. Bad things happen all the time, and I knew that then as I do now. But what he said was also devastating. In some wordless place deep within, I had hoped that God would keep bad things from happening to me—that it was somehow his job to do so. That he owed me that much. And the plain truth of what Hunter said stood before me, obvious and terrible.
That truth—that obvious and terrible truth—is that God doesn’t owe me anything.
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The following day, my Oncologist called. The scan results show tiny spots in my lungs.
She went on to say that it may not be cancer. One of the drugs I take can cause inflammation of the lungs, which appear as spots on a scan.
Don’t sugar-coat this for me, Doctor, I said. What do you think this is: cancer or side effects?
I really don’t know, she responded. I’d say it’s 50/50.
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Ty and I cried together. Then I went down to the hotel courtyard and made calls, sent texts, and updated our people.
A friend texted me: Your cancer has been like one of those awful roller coasters that crazy people like to ride that go upside down and so fast that you can’t see the turns coming, so they give you whiplash. Then it stops, and your exhale only gets you to the moment that it slams in reverse and sends you backward… in the dark. I do not ride those roller coasters. But you didn’t ask to be on this one, so I’ve strapped myself in the backseat, riding along with you.
This problem of a good God alongside terrible pain and suffering in the world has a theological name. It’s called Theodicy.
And spoiler alert: there’s no easy answer. Our questions continue. Harrison Warren writes, …the problem of pain can’t be adequately answered because we don’t primarily want an answer. When all is said and done, we don’t want God to simply explain himself, to give an account of how hurricanes or head colds fit into his overall redemptive plan. We want action. We want to see things made right.
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It’s Easter week.
Amid the new dresses, egg hunts, chocolate bunnies, and tables of food, we lift our eyes to the cross and the empty tomb. Hopefully, we’ll linger there.
Francis Spufford writes We don’t have an argument that solves the problem of a cruel world, but we have a story.
Because this story, this Jesus, who is written about in history books as a real flesh and blood person, lived a life of pain. Born into poverty and under an oppressive empire, he experiences death of friends, constant misunderstanding, and suffering common to man. Finally, we see him distressed to the point of sweating blood in horrible expectation of what is right around the bend. He weeps, prays, and cries out: Is there another way? He is abandoned by those he loves, falsely accused, and tortured to death. But he is also God. He does not have to do this. It actually is his choice.
In short, God did not keep bad things from happening to God himself.
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I echo Jesus’s sentiment: Is there another way?
Spufford writes that, ultimately, We don’t ask for a creator who can explain himself. We ask for a friend in time of grief, a true judge in times of perplexity, a wider hope that we can manage in times of despair.
Like my friend who says she’s strapped herself into this horrible roller coaster with me—she knows that presence is important. I want to be healthy. I long for days two years ago before this whole nightmare began. I continue to cry out. Is there another way?
And I argue with my beloved. I see a side of him that I don’t understand and, quite frankly, don’t like. I hate this. But, my primordial cry is deeper and for more: Where are you? What does this all mean?
We wait for God to bring healing to the sick, peace in our conflict, encouragement in disappointment, clarity in our befuddlement. And sometimes he does. And sometimes the sick die, the conflict worsens, the disappointment deepens, the confusion thickens. And yet we continue to watch and wait, knowing that the moment we can see—this small circle of lantern light—is not the whole road, not the whole story.
Because without the tears in the garden and the blood-soaked cross, there would be no empty tomb.
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We go back to Houston in four weeks to be scanned again. If the specks have grown or there are more of them, we’ll do a biopsy to confirm cancer. If they are smaller or stay the same, it’s likely a side effect of my medications, and hopefully, the fix will be easy.
It rained all last night and throughout today. All of the girls’ games were canceled. I dashed in and out of doctor’s offices today, dodging raindrops. As the sun finally peeked out from the clouds this afternoon, I grabbed a leash so Margie and I could head up the street for a short walk. The water cheerfully bubbled through the overflowing storm gutters. Birds twittered and sang their songs, chirping loudly from their branches. The sun warmed my face. It’s been so cold here in Tennessee for so long. I inhaled the air and filled my lungs, and as I walked, I found myself humming an old hymn, This is my Father’s World.
The last stanza reads
This is my Father’s world:
O let me never forget
That though the wrong seems often so strong,
God is the Ruler yet.
This is my Father’s world:
Why should my heart be sad?
The Lord is King: let the heavens ring!
God reigns; let earth be glad!
The days between Good Friday and Easter Sunday are dark days. I imagine the grief, the death of dreams, the fear, and the misunderstanding of those who loved Jesus. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
And yet…
The reason I can continue watching and waiting, even as the world is shrouded in darkness, is because the things I long for are not rooted in wishful thinking or religious ritual but are as solid as a stone rolled away. -Tish Harrison Warren
Sunday is coming, my friends.
Note: I’ve quoted Tish Harrison Warren’s book, Prayer in the Night quite a bit in this post. It’s my favorite book that I’ve ready over the last two years, and I saw that Christianity Today just named it the Book of the Year for 2022, so if you don’t trust me, trust them. Buy it today.
