The Long Race
I hate running.
When Esther and Nell were little—maybe 2 and 3 years old—I ran a half marathon. I’d never run before. I’d never run any kind of race and I’d never even run for sport or exercise. I am not a runner. Two friends convinced me to sign up for a half marathon together, and peer pressure won over.
We were all starting from ground zero. We trained for about 6 months, beginning with a simple one-mile per run and building up to 11 miles per run until the actual 13-mile event in Nashville. To be fair: running is probably not the correct term… jogging is more accurate. With two small children and full-time work, the only moment in my day that I could consistently find time to run was before everyone woke up in the morning. Three to four times a week, I started my day with an early morning jog.
I was a slow mover, and it always took a few miles for me to wake up and get my head in the game. I often jogged my neighborhood, and I’d always get a burst of energy when I had my house in view again at the close of my route. Just seeing that I was almost finished propelled me to work hard and finish strong. I’d pump my music up and turn it to a fast-paced song. Then I’d sprint to my driveway.
In Nashville on race day, however, I discovered an unhappy situation: the road to the finish line was uphill. I had already run 12 miles and thought I might drop right there in the middle of the course. I remember turning the last corner, finally having the finish line in view and thinking: Those bastards.
The last half-mile of the race was an uphill climb, and I honestly didn’t know if I could do it.
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I found a lump in my breast 9 months ago and was diagnosed with Stage 3 Breast Cancer in August 2020. My doctors had their plan: chemotherapy, mastectomy surgery, radiation, and then endocrine therapy. For the most part, if I could look a year ahead, I’d be finished with the bulk of it. Chemo, surgery, and radiation would be complete by August of 2021. I’d be ready to rock and roll.
As with any journey, there have been road bumps: In November, I got the shingles which were not only ridiculously painful but also delayed chemo. In January, my port flipped under my skin and became inaccessible, so the last 5 or 6 chemo rounds went in my veins, which weakened them and created new problems. After my mastectomy surgery, one of my drains became infected, which caused a setback in recovery.
But overall, we’ve stayed on course. All post-chemo scans were clear: no more cancer was visible. Hallelujah!—it was all worth it.
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Recently I stumbled across a section of scripture that caught my eye. In a way, you could say that it grabbed my attention because of how boring it is. I’m not going to write it all out for you because it’s tedious and you’d be bored to tears, but I’m going to give you a taste of it so you get the picture. The whole passage is Numbers 33:1-49, where the Israelites have been miraculously freed from their captors in Egypt and then end up wandering in the desert for 40 years while en route to the Promised Land:
verses 2, 10-18 here
At the Lord’s command, Moses recorded the stages in their journey. This is their journey by stages:
They left Elim and camped by the Red Sea.
They left the Red Sea and camped by the Desert of Sin.
They left the Desert of Sin and camped at Dophkah.
They left Dophkah and camped at Alush.
They left Alush and camped at Rephidim, where there was no water for the people to drink.
They left Rephidim and camped in the Desert of Sinai.
They left the Desert of Sinai and camped at Kibroth Hattaavah.
They left Kibroth Hattaavah and camped at Hazeroth.
They left Hazeroth and camped at Rithmah.
These verses are followed by 27 more mind-numbing verses of leaving and camping locations. When I counted, I found 42 different campsite locations for the Israelites.
Why would the Lord instruct Moses to write this down? What does this teach me about God? What does this teach me about people/humankind/me?
First, I am reminded that the cliché is true: life actually is a journey. Or as verse 2 phrases it: stages in a journey. When we finish with one, we are just on to the next. We’ve learned things that we take with us to that next phase of the course, but we also have new challenges to overcome in the next phase.
We have a graphic design intern right now at The Happy Envelope. She’s a Senior at UT and working her rear off to finish up her projects for final presentations and graduation. She mentioned that she just can’t wait to graduate and get all of this behind her. I remember those days. I remember being so ready to move past college to the next thing that I may have missed the beauty in exactly where I was, finishing a significant season of life that I’ll never get back. I wished it all away. Perhaps I can say the same thing about my season as a mom with very small children: I wished it away, and only in hindsight can I see how extraordinary that season was.
Second, on a smaller note: these verses suggest that people need things written down. God told Moses to write it. He needed to log it. Writing your journey could prove to be important. I’ve found writing to be a silver lining in this whole cancer debacle. At the very least, it can be cathartic. At best, it can spur someone else on in their personal journey. Your story can be an encouragement for someone else to keep on keeping on in their roadblocks. It helps us remember. Sometimes the best way to remember where you’ve been and what you’ve come through is to write it down. Reflection and remembering can bring hope when you once again find yourself in the valley of despair.
Third and most importantly, these verses also emphasize that nothing is permanent. We camp, and then we camp some more. The people moved locations more than 42 times in 40 years, and not in and out of fine houses, but in tents. Instability and insecurity are the very things that make us aware of our dependence on God, which is exactly where he wants us to be. This world is not our home. We’re all just wanderers, sojourners. I can practically hear the whisper:
Don’t get too comfortable.
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Any doctor will tell you that you can do scans all day long but the most accurate information that you’ll get is the pathology report on the actual tumor. Unfortunately, this can’t be done until the tumor is removed via surgery. Scans can only detect cancer that has grown to be a certain size. Anything smaller will go unseen.
Six weeks ago, I had a double mastectomy on a Monday morning. I got a phone call from my doctor that Friday: the pathology report was troubling. It was unexpected. Even though my scans had been clear, 12 of my 13 lymph nodes were still cancerous, and Surprise!—I also had cancer in the nodes on my other side. Technically, this meant that my cancer had spread from my left nodes to my right nodes. It’s uncommon but it can happen.
I’m not even exactly sure what to do, said my surgeon. I’ll do a little more research.
To start with, I was scheduled for more scans: a CT scan and bone scan to make certain it hadn’t spread anywhere else. Breast cancer typically metastasizes to the lungs, liver, bones, or brain.
Ty and I were spooked. We thought we were finishing this race, but suddenly the finish line moved. I was closing in on victory and then someone added a few more miles to the course. I was so close… and then I wasn’t.
We didn’t share this with many people because we didn’t know what the news would be. All we could do was wait for those new scans and pray. So that’s what we did.
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This was all about two weeks ago. All of my scans came back clear. Another hallelujah! Now radiation, with just a slight change of course: due to that unexpected cancer in the nodes on the other side, I’ll have radiation on both sides. Fine. No problem. Carrying on to the next leg in the journey.
I’m scheduled to start radiation next week. It is administered 5 days per week for 6 weeks.
Game on: I’ve got this.
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A few days ago, I noticed a rash with quite a few hard bumps directly under my skin on the left side of my chest. I called my surgeon’s office. I haven’t even had my six-week post-surgery checkup. Maybe it’s scar tissue? Maybe little blood clots? But Ty and I both had that horrible, all-too-familiar sinking feeling. It was a quiet drive to our appointment.
We sat together at my doctor’s office and learned that I have cancer again. Upon clinical evaluation, feeling the many bumpy nodules that had practically appeared overnight, my Oncology Nurse Practitioner guessed it was an ‘explosive breast cancer recurrence.’ Official biopsy results confirm that less than six weeks from my double mastectomy, my breast cancer is back and has found its way into my chest wall and skin.
We are heartbroken.
The finish line is no longer in sight. Actually: we are going back to the starting line of a whole new race, and I never even finished the first one.
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I waffle between tears and busyness. Tears enable me to feel. Busyness keeps me distracted. Both are good. I’ve rescheduled and shuffled and made the phone calls I need to make, but really, we just wait. We wait and we pray. There is nothing else that we can do until a course of treatment is decided upon.
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In Elizabeth Elliott’s book, Suffering is Never for Nothing, she says that when she found out that her first husband, Jim had died in the jungle she found comfort in just doing the next thing. She stood at the little radio and heard the confirmation of Jim’s death with a 1-year old on her hip. She got up and went back to their little house in the jungle, continued in her missionary work, and in raising their little 1-year old daughter. She’s lost another husband since then and in that grief, again, it was her mantra: Just Do the Next Thing.
Those Israelites had no idea when they were leaving Egypt in verse 1 that they’d still be wandering 42 verses later. They thought they were leaving Egypt and on a fast pass to the Promised Land, but that’s not how it worked out. They were given one instruction at a time, putting one foot in front of the other. All they could do is The Next Thing. And if you’re familiar with the Bible at all, you know they even screwed that up.
And we, too, do the next thing. We do not understand this path. It doesn’t make sense. I have more questions than answers. But I do know that while we wait, we pray. While we pray, we trust. We hope. We cry. And then we get on this new course—this new race, one foot in front of the other because that is the only way to cross the finish line.
xo,
