I have been, to say the very least, lost.

I even began a journal with the title “The Year I Lost God.”

I ceased all seeking of Him, serving Him, worshipping Him.

I would not even allow myself to think of Him.

Pretty harsh.

There was no single event that made the prodigal road seem so appealing or necessary.  It was a slow descent.  A series of unanswered prayers, a season of silence during which I felt as if I were floating in the middle of an icy ocean with very little to hold onto and no lifeboat in sight.  I was, for many reasons, overwhelmed with a sense of defeat.

I became angry with God himself.  Blamed him for everything from my depression to the endless days of winter wind and snow and rain that we have been experiencing.  I blamed him for the rejection from my dad and how that relationship can never, ever be mended.  And then, the words rushed out.

I.  Hate.  You.  And I truly did, being so broken and so defeated.  It was all I had left.

I dove into a God-free mindset.  No more prayers, no more hymns sung in the shower.  Not even a hint of a prayer as I let the anger and sorrow and shame and pity and disappointment and resentment churn deep within me.  Unceasingly.  I even - almost - convinced myself - for a very brief amount of time - that likely, God never even existed.

From there, it was freefalling.  No festering, no ruminating, no contemplating.  Just freefalling into spiritual oblivion.

Funny thing was, I had felt it coming on, like the rush of the sound of fluttering wings before you actually see the feathered beasts swoop down.  I felt my feet turn to the prodigal road and even asked God, quite sincerely, to not let go.  I have a brief memory of the closet scene from Poltergeist at that very moment.  Those who are familiar with the scene know that I was about to enter a violent pit, the rope around me pleading, “Don’t let go!!!”  And off I went.

Just as there was no one catalyst for my taking that road, there was no single catalyst for me lying completely awake for hours on end last night and thinking to myself that I needed to go back, ashamed and fearful of rejection or utter silence that I was, I needed to find my way back.

The journey back was as far or wide as the journey away had been.  While I expected to find shame and fear making it difficult and awkward, as we walked around the park under the setting sun, God and I, I just felt…warm.  I just felt warm.  And peaceful.  And home.

Therefore, we do not lose heart.  Though outwardly we are wasting away,
yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.  2 Corinthians 4;16.

I wanted that bible with the beautiful, sinfully soft leather cover.  I took it from the shelf several times, ran my hand along the front cover and down the wide spine where the words Holy Bible were pressed into the leather itself.  I gently leafed through the sheer pages with the silver gilding and sighed as I placed it back in its box and up on the top shelf.  Even squinting my very hardest, I could not read the print on the pages of that book.

It is official.  I have become…older.  The day after coveting that beautiful bible, I had my annual eye exam.  I thought the words “progressive lenses” sounded high-tech until I realized that they were just the new reference for bifocals.  Bifocals!  My grandmother wore bifocals…when she was old!  And thus, I have even more proof that my life is whizzing past me faster than I have had the courage acknowledge.

Over the weekend I eventually accepted that my new bible would require one feature I had always avoided.  Giant print.  I have recently wrestled with the fact that my body is beginning to betray me in subtle ways.  I cringe at site of those tiny lines on my neck, the way that my back hurts after heaving the vacuum up and down the stairs.  And now, giant print.

Still, I would not turn back the calendar one day.  I truly am being renewed, day by day, and am in awe over who I am and who I am becoming in Christ.  I no longer have the deceiving naivete of a 20-something who once giggled at the large print bibles in the hands of the elders…the pages that I could read from the back of the sanctuary.  Today, I have the wisdom and the passion of a 40-something woman who is learning to embrace knowing God rather than just knowing of God…even if that requires 14 point font.  And bifocals.

This much I know is true:

Whatever is done to me, said to me, spoken of me,

whether by another or myself,

::does not::

change who I am or what I am

in the eyes and the heart

of God.

The first Christian church I ever attended was this tiny gathering of people that met in a community center, where they sat on folding chairs, looking so out of place beneath the basketball hoops.  My only previous attempted encounters with God were in the glorious cathedrals of several Catholic churches where my mother headed up the choir.  I had never found God in those churches, let alone actually met him.  If I had never found God as I gazed up at the stained glass images of the Lion and the Lamb, how could I possibly find Him while sitting in a rickety folding chair in the same room where just last night a handful of sweaty teenage boys were learning how to slam dunk?   And then I noticed the pages.

As the pastor spoke and read from his bible - days long before the idea of projection screens during worship service - I could not help but notice as I heard the thin pages being turned in bibles on the laps of those that surrounded me…these bibles had been read, and read many times.  They were not the carefully opened and preserved bibles that fit in the neat little wooden pocket in the pews of the church that I attended throughout my childhood.  They were not bibles whose binding creaked as they were opened.  They were bibles with highlighted words and underscored sentences.  They were bibles with notes in the margins and color coordinated Post-It notes filled with quickly scribbled verses and references.  They were bibles with tattered pages.

I wanted such a bible.  I wanted a bible that was falling apart from overuse.  One whose pages were colorful from passionate study of God’s word.  I wanted to know the verses and the history and the Author of it all.  I wanted the pages of my bible to be tattered from an undying love of God and all that He has spoken through the ages.

Today, years later, my pages are not tattered.  The gilded golden edges have barely worn from the pages being turned so few times.  Not so much as the faint line of a pencil underscoring a single word can be found in the pages of my bible.  More than once over the years, I have actually had to dust the cover.

What made that fact hit home all the more was the search for an image for this post.  The one you see up top there was taken by a professional photographer.  The bible did not belong to him.  Or any of his coworkers.  It did not even belong to anyone he may have worshiped beside at church.  It belonged to a toothless, homeless man whom the photographer claimed was the happiest man he ever met.  Those are the pages of a man after God’s own heart, a man fervent to know God, all that He is and all that He has done.

I want my own bible to testify of my hunger for His word.  More than just a Sunday accessory, I want the cover to be lovingly worn, the binding to become soft from being cradled in my hands. I want the gilding to wear off and the satin place marker to become frayed.

I want the tattered pages.

After all of these years, one would think that I don’t have to ask if I really know God.  I know, very well, the words and names used to describe Him.  I know of His miracles and that He is, well, God.  But do I know HIM?  Do I take the time to listen to His voice so that I can discern it among the countless other voices that speak to me?  Have I studied Him in such a way that He has not been reduced to memorized bible verses?  Would I recognize Him if he passed by me on the street?

I know the glorified parts of His history…the Garden of Eden and all that happened there, the plagues, the exodus, the beautiful prose of Psalms, the heartache and ultimate restoration of Job, the birth and death and resurrection of His Son.

But do I know Him?

Do I know Him as Almighty?  Every time I ponder life, anatomy, love, feelings, relationships…

Do I know Him as Abba, Father?  Long story short, I know Him as that probably more than any other name.

Do I know Him as the Way?  I know from one experience after another that there is no other.

Do I know Him as Deliverer?  I would likely not be breathing today if I did not.

Yes, I know Him.

Do you?

When you are told that you may have breast cancer, you hold your breath.  From the very moment they tell you to during your diagnostic mammogram all the way through to the moment you get that blessed call that says you have dodged the bullet.  And then you breathe.  It isn’t necessarily that you didn’t have faith that all would be well in God’s hands or that He wouldn’t give you the added measure of strength and courage to endure the prospect of cancer.  Mostly, it was the unknown, the not knowing.  The biopsy and the subsequent bruising and aching are nothing compared to the endless questioning you put yourself through with every “what if” and the endless information overload you may find as you self diagnose through the magic of the internet.

When the radiologist tells you that when he first saw your films, he was “90% sure you had cancer,” you don’t question the validity of the miracle that took place somewhere between the first suspicious cluster on the mammogram to the final determination of the pathologist.  And then you thank the God that you told only yesterday, “whatever your will, let it be done.”

And then, you breathe.

Yesterday I went for a biopsy of what could possibly be ductal carcinoma in situ.  It could also possibly something else entirely…or nothing at all.  Except I’ve done the research, seen the images, seen my own films and the specimen slides.  I am, to say the least, breathless with anticipation.  The phone remains silent.  Although I didn’t expect the results today, the phrase “within 48 hours” certainly left open the possibility that I could know by now.  As it is, I do not.  And the ticking of the clock is like Chinese water torture.  Time seems to be moving at a snail’s pace today.

We’ve discussed all of the possible scenarios.  If it’s cancer, if it’s not.  Either way, our lives will forever be changed.  No longer can I possibly take life or health for granted.  The reality that cancer can happen is very, well, real to me now.  Although women who have suspicious results from their mammograms have an 80% chance that it is nothing of concern, there is still that 20% who will get “the call.”  Do those in the 20% say to themselves, “I will not be in that 20%?”  Do they find themselves thinking that the 20% Club members will certainly be someone else?  I cannot seem to imagine myself in either group.  I am, it seems, suspended in biopsy limbo.

I have never been a patient person.  When I want something I want it now.  Or yesterday.  It has been a “defect” that I have prayed over many times, asking God to grant me more patience in the matters of life.  I am learning, the hard way, that God’s answers are not free tokens.  He does not hand us the things that we want - at least, not often.  Instead, he creates in our lives or in us the things that we pray for that will glorify him.  Like patience.  How does he create patience?  For me, it has become forced anticipation.  Yesterday, a biopsy was ordered for something found on my mammogram and today, I am all about counting the days until that biopsy appointment.  And there are many of them stretched out before me.  Days that can be full of worrying, days of wanting to fall asleep until the appointed hour…And yet here is the ultimate test.  Will I take the step in achieving the patience I have so long prayed for?  It will require an added measure of faith on my part, that God already has the answers, knows the outcome and is in control.  This lesson in patience will require me to stop researching possibilities on the internet and just wait.  Stop making scenarios of doom in my head and just wait. Be still and know that HE is God.

Patience requires absolutely nothing from me from me but faith in a God who has NEVER failed me.  Nothing.  Only to be still and know…be still.  and know.  No matter what, God is God.

In a few short months, I will be 42 years old.  Although emotionally and spiritually, I would not trade these years for anything, my body is making me long for my 20s for the first time since I was still a teen.  Like the car that reaches 1 mile past the warranty, my body is slowly showing signs of wear and tear.  The transmission slips every now and then.  The brakes don’t always work.  There are unfamiliar rattles underneath the hood and I just noticed the other day that the spare tire looks a little overinflated.

A routine physical used to be…routine.  Not even a tune-up.  More like merely checking the fluids.

Those days are long gone.

It’s probably nothing, but when the doctor calls and says she has found something suspicious and wants to send you for more tests, it feels like the clutch snapped in the middle of shifting into 5th gear.

Enough with the analogy.  Tomorrow, I get to go for additional imaging because my annual mammogram revealed “something suspicious.”  It’s probably nothing.  Statistics are all on my side on that one.

After telling my husband and sitting in my office holding the phone and wondering what to do while I waited just to schedule my additional studies, I actually said out loud, “who do I turn to?”  I cannot believe I actually had to ask that question and even though the answer came immediately, I felt foolish for even hesitating. 

I know from having journeyed with Heather through her fight against brain cancer that no matter what, benign or malignant, my God is still an awesome God.  He hears, he listens, he cares about EVERYTHING I bring to him.  Even if it is probably nothing.