I have not written in a couple of weeks. The honest reason - - - I haven’t wanted to think about all this. Most of the time, the physical issues related to cancer are miniscule compared to the emotional and mental issues.

I keep in touch with a few folks who are also battling cancer. They all have poor prognoses, and most of them are all trying to remain faithful to Christ in their journey. One brother recently had a huge setback that led to days of excruciating pain and a few difficult days in the hospital. It seemed touch and go for almost a week.

I keep up with how he is doing through FaceBook. His wife is really good about keeping folks in the loop, and is sincerely honest with the struggle that he and his family are going through. Like me, he has hundreds of people praying for him. I am one of them, even though we have never met. He has had it far worse than I have. But God answered prayers, and he improved. He was able to go home just before Thanksgiving. Then FaceBook fell silent. I got worried. For several days I would check FaceBook every few minutes to see if his wife had posted anything. But it turned out that his wife just needed a break. He is currently doing better. I am praising God for that, and praying all the harder for his recovery and restoration, and for his family who is on an emotional roller-coaster.

The pendulums of this journey are so extreme that it is hard avoid emotional exhaustion. I have it. I am doing good, physically. My cancer seems to be less and less every week. I feel well. My strength is returning. I have no reason not to be positive and upbeat. But it has been a tough couple of weeks for me. I think a lot of it is emotional fatigue. This is different than burnout. I’m not burned out. I am just tired. But it is a deep tiredness. It is different than bi-polar. I don’t feel out of control. I check out voluntarily. You can’t describe it as “mood-swings”. It is way more than that.

Cancer wants to absorb your life. And if you can manage to keep cancer from taking over, cancer treatment will. It is just as bad. I don’t want to be a cancer victim. I don’t want to be a cancer patient. And if you understand my meaning, I don’t want to be a cancer survivor either. I don’t want cancer to be a defining attribute of who I am. And so I get tired of thinking about it, talking about it, scheduling the increasingly fragmented pieces of my life around it. So occassionally I shut down. I have been shut down most of the past two weeks. (Apologies to my wife and staff, who have born the brunt.)

But that doesn’t help either. I have watched so much Netflix lately that some days I think my brain starts turning to oatmeal and running out of my ears. I don’t remember what I watched. It is unimportant. On those days, nothing seems important. I just stare at a 2-dimensional screen with moving and occasionally entertaining images on it. If it were warmer, I would sit on my porch and stare at the hummingbirds.

So here is a truly bizarre revelation: I think all this is probably healthy.

When I read some of the Psalms, I appreciate that the writers experienced a full spectrum of emotion, and didn’t go crazy. So “up” is real, and real is good. And “down” is real, and real is good. And God is both places. If I am made in His image, then my feelings are not outside of the realm of His. He is everything I am and more. So even if I don’t “feel” it, the euphoric bursts of gratitude and joy, and the struggle with limbo and survivor guilt and my frustration with the non-linear processes of physical decay and healing… both ends of the spectrum - which are more than I have ever experienced before - are new places of fellowship with God.

Fellowship literally means commonality.

Commonality? Really? This seems like weakness and brokenness.

But God comes to us, and sometimes he is hungry, or thirsty, or naked. Sometimes he comes to us homeless. Sometimes he comes to us oppressed. And, yes, sometimes he comes to us sick, in the throws of decay, broken. Goats miss it. But so do sheep.

For some of you who may not know the reference above, the last story Jesus told in public was a story of the “Son of Man” coming in the future, and separating people like a shepherd separates sheep and goats. He blesses the sheep by giving them their inheritance of the Kingdom of God. Surprised, they asked, “Why do we get the Kingdom?”, and he answers that when he was hungry and thirsty, they gave him food and drink. When he was naked, they clothed him. When he was sick, they spent time with him and looked after him. They asked, “When did we see you like that?” Jesus answered, “In as much as you did it to the least of these, you did it to me.” The goats didn’t do that to any of the people they saw hungry, naked, or sick, and so they did not do it to Christ. And they will not inherit the kingdom because of it. Instead, they will be punished.

The amazing thing to me is that Christ came to both the sheep and the goats in the form of needy, broken people, and neither of them recognized him. Yet some served anyway, while others turned the needy away. I work with people who serve poor people and marginalized people, who work in neighborhoods most of us were taught to avoid. It is hard work. It is most often thankless work. But many have done it for 10, 20 or even 40 years. When asked how they were able to make it without burning out, they almost all say that they learned to recognize Christ in their patients and neighbors. They found Jesus in the broken and the poor.

I think the goats in that story were people who would never look for God in brokenness. Their concept of God was that of a StrongMan. And He is a StrongMan. But that is not all He is. He is strong and weak. He is up and down. He is whole and broken. And that is why I trust Him. He is in my brokenness, and in my sadness as much as He is in my joy and celebration. I find him everywhere. He is consistently and thoroughly good. He is only good and always good. I love him. What is not to love.

I was godlier last summer when all the news was bad and when the doctors offered little or no hope. I was ready to die or live – ready to follow him through whatever darkness might come. Now I am being healed, and doctors are confirming it. And now I am impatient, frustrated, a flicker of light. Yet He is still here. He is still consistant. He is still faithful. He still loves me. He still reveals himself to me.

Next Tuesday (December 10) is scan day. It is also my 12-year work anniversary. It is a few days after my 63rd birthday. It is 3 weeks until the end of the decade and the beginning of a new one. This month is a time of transition for me and for most of the world. I hope the scans confirm that the cancer is gone. I honestly don’t know how I will react if they find more cancer, or even lingering cancer. Pray for me. I am praying for God to please finish this good work and deliver me from cancer – body, mind and emotion. I am praying for Dan, and for Mike, and for Cindy and Becci and Britta, and for my friend’s rabbi, and a handful of others. And I am praying for you – asking that God will remind you to pray for me, that He will guide you in your prayers, that He will give you faith, and that He will hear and answer your prayers on my behalf.

Thank you for praying for me. Please don’t stop.