The Sixth Round.

Posted: November 12, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland.


The chunky little fighter steps into the ring for the sixth time.
This is the last scheduled round.
It was postponed because the fighter was sucker punched by a hotheaded punk in the parking lot.
His cheeks are still rosy from the last round, which causes him to look like a hairless, jolly elf.
He is groggy.
He is ready for this to be done.
There is still uncertainty, it would be so easy to give into the dark thoughts.
Some days hope comes easier than others.
Some days you got to shake things up.
The fighter has a crazy thought…
a crazy, sweaty thought…
a crazy, sweaty, grunty thought.
Maybe, it’s time for the fighter to get a wild eyed look, stomp his short leg, and let out a loud “WOOOOOOOOO!”
Can you smell what the fighter is cooking?
The gloves are coming off.
He is thankful for the sweet science, but it’s time to revert back to lessons learned watching grown men in tights throw each other around on Saturday mornings.
It’s time to RASSLE.
It’s time to pull out a metal chair and hit the belly bully square in the face and follow that up with a chokehold.
It’s time to tag his tag team partner and watch Him work.
It’s time to stick to the script. The outcome is predetermined, the fight has already been won. That doesn’t mean that the pain isn’t real.
The fighter leaves the ring with a limp.
Most wrestlers end up with a limp.
Scars become stories.
Today begins chemo round six, it was supposed to happen a week ago.  We were detoured by a rude fever and life threatening infection.
But, today we start the last scheduled treatment.
Five more days with the magic juice box continually attached to my chest.
Then we wait.
Just like an election in Florida, we won’t know the results for a few weeks.
There will have to be tests.
We are praying for a complete knock out.
Cancer is like a tight, itchy orange sweater.
It looks different on everybody.
Every patient is different.

Every day is different.
Every one fights an unexpected fight.
In the midst of my fight, I remember I am not my own.
I have been bought.
I’m a thankful home for the Holy Ghost.
I’m His property.
The belly bully is trespassing on His property.
He has the authority to evict the bully.
I realize by watching my granddaughter prance around that toddlers are short for a reason…they fall down a lot.
When you are close to the ground, it hurts less to fall.
I’m thinking that maybe I’m short for the same reason.
I also realize by watching the Moonpie that, when you DO fall, it’s best to fall into the arms of someone you love.
I wait for remission.
I wait for (re)mission.
I wait for renaissance.
The One who made me can make me new.
It’s going to require a miracle.
I stand on the brink of a miracle.
I remember that forgiveness is a vital part of miracles. It opens the flow for impossible stuff to happen.
During your fight, you will inevitably be given many chances to forgive. People will say and do hurtful, selfish things.
They are not the enemy.
You have to forgive.
Grudge becomes sludge.
Sometimes the road to the miracle is rocky and hard.
It hurts.
It leads to a place of promise.
What if the pain is the necessary path to the next place?
God is the author of the promise not the pain.
The pain comes from the jagged edges of a broken planet.
God is the author of the promise not the pain, so
I pray the promise, not the pain.
As we wait for the promise, the pain can show us that we are stronger than we ever imagined.
We are like Glow sticks that only start to shine when they are broken and shaken. We only really shine when we build on our brokenness and let the light of Christ seep through our cracks.
I read old familiar stories of people who fought their own fights and trusted in God.
They needed miracles.
They prayed the promise.
They waited.
The stories are comforting to me because I know the outcome.
They won.
They received the promise.
They tasted the miracle.
Then I realize that these people who fought their own fights did not know how their story would end.
Their miracles were a work in progress.
They had no clue how things would play out.
We forget that.
They had to walk by faith too.
Miracles are like a big, warm purple sweater. They look different on everybody.
The story is still being written…
We wait.

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