Oats In The Water.

To be. To be still. To be angry or to be quiet? To be mad or to be hurt? To be confused, numb, guilty or sad? How about to be so overwhelmed beyond possible human capacity? To be. I feel, but to be is not an option. It is as if I were on a see-saw. One side is my emotional crisis of bad news, the lingering of the bad report sits…heavy, hopeless and whispers doom. But across is the other side. The side that says impossible possibilities and faith can invade the human sphere of the finite makeup. You see, I can’t turn the music up in my head phones loud enough. I can’t do 100 sit-ups or run fast enough to make it go away because there is no going away from this. It is here and it is real. To be stunned and faced with the mass of uncertainty is not a safe place for me. This is not my comfort zone. I feel exposed, vulnerable, and naked. My only hope is not of man’s ability, but in the One who gives man the capability. The capability to believe where there is no belief. The capability to stand unshakeable when the storm that hits is stronger than human strength itself. To be in denial, fantasy, or disbelief is just not in the cards, but to give thanks over and over again is all I can do. To be thankful when thanksgiving should seem out of reach however, it is not, for it is all I know, like the oats in the water.

Come again?


A simple, uneducated, little word slipped out of my mouth when the results of Sean’s biopsy read cancer. My flesh person heard what my human ears heard. For me, this was the worst possible news to receive. As my heart bursting through my chest began to temper down and I could no longer feel the pressure of unbelief beating between my ears, my spirit person softly spoke, “But Jesus.” The results said defeat; my ears heard defeat, but I don’t do defeat and all I could say now was, “But Jesus!”
This is the standing at the edge of the wilderness, knowing we have to and understanding we must go through this. Going around is not an option. Running from it is not possible; the only way through it is through it. But Jesus. I feel scared, but Jesus says, “Do not fret, nor be dismayed.” I am confused, but His word says, “The enemy brings confusion, but He comes to bring peace.” I feel in absolute need, but Jesus says, “I am the good Shepherd, in me you shall not be in lack of any good thing.” I shake uncontrollably, my mind races endlessly, and I cry unintentionally, but Jesus says, “Come to me all who are heavy burdened, for my yolk is easy and my burden is light.” He has shown me to be faithful. I don’t know Him not to be. The results of recent don’t make sense. In my head, I figured it out, only to figure out that I haven’t actually figured it out at all. There is a bigger picture. We proclaim it, declare it, and confess it. There is always a bigger picture and I am thankful to be in it. One of the greatest illustrations of a bigger story is when the Israelites stood at the edge of the wilderness. There was a promise, though. There always is. The Lord said, “I will be with you.” Not only was He with them, but He demonstrated unthinkable miracles. He provided light when there was no light. He provided food when there was no food. He provided shelter when there was no shelter. Shoes for forty years did not wear out! How? Because He can, He does, and He will! Before the reaching of the wilderness, Moses and the people of God first stood before the Red Sea with Pharaoh’s army heading towards them in full force, showing no mercy, full on attack, charging, and what did God do? He parted the waters and they walked through it. There was no going around it, no running from it. The body of water formed two walls and the children walked on through. There was a wall of water on their left and a wall of water on their right, and to top it off, the ground was dry. Their feet didn’t even get wet or soggy!
Jesus will be and is with us, no doubt in my heart. He will be in the panel room filled with specialist and cancer doctors discussing the strategies and the best treatment options for Sean. I don’t doubt it. I also don’t doubt the vision I saw at our last homegroup as we gathered around Sean laying our hands on his body and the fifteen spots on his lungs shriveling up and dying, falling off one by one. I don’t doubt the vision of Christ’s hands on his liver, touching the lesions and causing the mass to shrink. I don’t doubt the mass in his colon is shrinking. Cancer has no business in this temple. Cancer has no grounds, no rights. Cancer is not welcomed in our home. Cancer must bow down to the name of Jesus and get lost. Why? Because I don’t do cancer.