Last evening, I had the privilege of speaking to a cancer support group that consisted of several lovely ladies who left me with much to ponder. I’d really like to think that, since I was actually the guest speaker, I was the one giving out food for thought; but, I’m thinking now that it was the other way around. I was the one who left so full of thoughts that, though I had had very little dinner to speak of, I had no desire at all to eat when I got home last night; and I really, really like to eat. I even woke up this morning not wanting to eat and instead wanting to (or maybe needing to) just chew on my thoughts.
As we talked about different experiences, I was struck by how we can all encounter something quite similar, like a critical illness, yet walk away from what we’ve encountered in such a different fashion. Some of us actually seem to see beauty in the ugly while others of us seem to feel that the mask of the ugly just covers everything. Some of us seem to want to talk about our journeys with limitless detail while others of us are just so sick of thoughts of illness that we can barely even stand to hear ourselves say the “c” word again at all. Some of us are well and seem to want to pay it forward to those who are still sick while others of us who are also well cannot seem to find a way to make ourselves remain in any sick scene for even one more second. Some of us seem to feel incredibly drawn to God through our suffering while others of us seem to hold God at arms’ length (and that’s if we even choose to still believe in him at all).
I’ve discovered all over again that it’s hard to know exactly what to say to someone who is suffering greatly. I feel like many of those around me think I should know what to say since I have played the role of sufferer, but I truly don’t. I do want to encourage others, to inspire them, to remind them that there’s always hope. But, if you’re the hearer of such words and you’re feeling hopeless in your suffering, then I’d be foolish to think that my words wouldn’t sound hollow to you. As a messenger, I know that I am horribly flawed; I know that my message, though, is anything but that. I may not always have the perfect words to speak, but I know who does. And that’s God, the world’s ultimate truthsayer.
You see, he knows something crucial that I don’t–he knows the person suffering from the inside out. Thus, he knows their triggers, good and bad. He knows their personal histories, their habits, their most vulnerable parts. He knows the words that will break them and that will make them. And, perhaps most amazingly, he knows the end of the story and all of the events that will transpire between now and then. He simply knows it all. And, unlike any of us down here, he can actually be trusted with such knowledge.
A health care professional told me something recently that I can’t forget. She said that she would like to work for hospice because that would be a lot easier than cancer care. When I asked why, she said, “Because things have been decided. The not knowing is what’s so hard.” The words of this insightful nurse came back to my mind last night, because that’s what I sensed in the room; the hardest part for many is the “not knowing” part. But, what does any of us really know about how our lives are going to play out down here, cancer or not? This realm is simply known for the unknown, and no single one of us can change that. We can, however, know the one who does know–the one who knows each and every one of us so very intimately. It’s completely our choice. And knowing that we’re wholly known, and wholly loved anyway, is enough, which I could never really say until I began a real relationship with the actual Knower and Lover himself–our great God.
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