<![CDATA[LEORA CAYLOR - BLOG ❉ BIG WORDS]]>

<![CDATA[LEORA CAYLOR - BLOG ❉ BIG WORDS]]>Thu, 16 Mar 2023 05:17:41 +0800Weebly<![CDATA[PRE-FALL HEARTS]]>Sat, 08 Sep 2018 05:44:09 GMThttp://www.blackleatherblankpage.com/blog-10057-big-words/pre-fall-hearts "God never intended death at all before the fall, our hearts were never designed to handle it, so I don't think there's any age at which loss becomes sensical. Of course, the hope of Heaven makes it easier for Christians, and the natural world teaches us that death is a normal part of life. But death is only a normal part of fallen life - and our hearts are still pre-fall 1.0 designs without the software upgrade to process death." - Me

I'm realizing I never really processed the loss of my dad and being his caretaker during the last two months of his life...

My dad refused hospitalization, and initially vehemently refused hospice care. It was only the last couple of weeks he allowed a hospice worker to come to provide basic oral pain meds like morphine, which I administered to him, or my mom.

This was a bad decision on his part but we obviously respected his wishes at the time, without anticipating the emotional repercussions of witnessing a dying process that was very inadequately supported by modern medicine (his choice, perhaps an attempt at strength in the face of impossible weakness). Those last few weeks were grueling, ugly, dehumanizing, and brutal - nothing like the peaceful cancer death we see in movies. Not even close.

I was initially okay (shock and "get 'er done" mentality), but am realizing that the flashbacks I still experience probably deserve some balm and massage (scenes of his death and the painful days leading up to it, when I wish those could be replaced with scenes of his life). Him practically drowning in his bed at home in what I now know was malignant pleural effusion, or his lungs filling with cancerous fluid (nobody told us that at the time, hospice help was inadequate, and doctors were not on hand), and just flashing back to memories of placing my hands on the ribs in his chest and almost feeling ocean-like waves of liquid under his skin and pain in his eyes.

In hindsight (it really is 20/20), I shouldn't have been the one caring for him, but at the same time, am glad I could serve him the way I did. He accepted Christ three days before he died, so I know there was value in being hands-on and bedside. But value at a searing emotional cost.

My dad did not want a funeral (which might have also offered some closure), so I think I compartmentalized my own wellbeing, and transitioned into "save the day" mode. Immediately after he died, I had two days on the ground in Texas which were warp speed and robotic: cleaning out his stuff, moving my dependent grandparents into the home that weekend, ordering Sonic chili cheese fries and Ocean Water like nothing had happened, and flying back to Hong Kong to jump back into ministry and winning at life.

I talked to a couple of others (mostly older than me) who'd lost a parent, or walked through cancer - and they seemed to be doing fine. So I thought I should be doing fine too and convinced myself I was, because it's "natural" to lose a parent eventually, many people have lost loved ones to cancer, and I didn't think there was anything special or unique about my experience. Who was I to take the loss of my dad "extra hard" - he was 72 after all, right? People fight in wars, whole villages are bombed, hello African genocide... and I just lose my aging father? I mean, I've read C.S. Lewis's "A Grief Observed", I've worked in ministry almost my entire adult life and know all the platitudes and God-talk, I know we'll never be able to answer the problem-of-pain, or "why suffering" questions and that living in the mystery of this with trust is the nature of our walk.

What I gained through my own experience was the ability to quickly and deeply enter into others' stories and walk with them. I'm great at bedside help now. You want me on your team. And I will never, ever, ever ask a person "how old" their loved one was when they passed away, as if a certain age makes death any less hard. I vividly remember people asking me how old my dad was, and nodding when I said 72 - as if it somehow made sense?

God never intended death at all before the fall, our hearts were never designed to handle it, so I don't think there's any age at which loss becomes sensical. Of course, the hope of Heaven makes it easier for Christians, and the natural world teaches us that death is a normal part of life. But death is only a normal part of fallen life - and our hearts are still pre-fall 1.0 designs without the software upgrade to process death. Jesus overcomes that old software in us when He makes our hearts His, when He died to overcome death for us. But there's still a hard mystery in all of this, and I still don't like singing the Easter lyrics, "...death where is your sting...", because the lyrics make me feel like, as a Christian, I shouldn't feel the sting of death. But my goodness, my dad's death stung something fierce.

At that time, I was self-aware enough to realize that I actually wasn't fully "okay" despite my outward countenance, and that grief (and to be honest, trauma) counseling might be helpful. But my personality is "power through", I've got church after all, and then only a couple months later my mom was diagnosed with cancer. So counseling took the back burner as we faced my mom's own rare and aggressive diagnosis. The complexity of the emotions here - fear of a similar fate for her, needing to set aside the loss of my dad, and the burden of knowing the weight on my mom's shoulders with her own diagnosis and subsequent treatment - all caused me to steel myself once again and dive into "help mode".

Then my grandmother's progressive dementia, my aunt's progressive cancer, my grandfather's hip and femur breaks making him 100% dependent, my uncle's death a couple months ago, my brother's health challenges, and much more. There is actually nobody in my family that is just sailing along and doing "okay" right now. And, the reality is, my grandparents will only get worse until death, and that just sucks.

Again, my tendency is to coach myself that there's nothing unusually challenging about my life, that things are pretty great overall. Everyone goes through hard experiences and loss. I tell myself that these things enlarge my capacity to have deep empathy for others (and this is true!), that these things give me opportunities to "be weak so God is strong", that I must be doing powerful things for the Kingdom because the element of spiritual attack is heavy.

But no, obviously these things I tell myself aren't working for me.

I'm beginning to see [not so great] patterns in myself: I don't just try to help my dad, I try to save him. I don't just try to help my mom, I get myself certified in Integrative Oncology Patient Advocacy and now Nutritional Therapy in the hours I'm not working at church and leading worship (how do I manage to do this - pure, crystalized adrenaline?!), consult with doctors around the world, take too many 3am calls to count, and try to make sure everyone is above the surface of the water. I don't just pray for my grandfather when he falls out of a hospital bed due to malpractice and breaks a femur, I schedule conference calls from Hong Kong to speak to the head of the department and write "legalese" letters to entire hospital staffs.

I'm a really great person to have in the ring with you. This is why I scored so highly as a #2 Helper on the Enneagram Test. This is a downfall as well, because I think the unhealthy side of this is that I don't feel like I can let go of the reins.

I have this tendency to want to take all of the hard and sucky and make sense of it, and place meaning on it by overcoming it and learning from it, being "the best in the world at it", writing a book about it, a song, or getting certified in it (ha!). To the nth degree, to the extreme. Is there a personality test or type for this? Lion, otter, golden retriever... what about Komodo dragon? ;)

Practical example: I saw a counselor twice over the past two weeks (the first one I've seen in 14 years) and haven't really gotten much out of it other than the opportunity to cry and the affirmation that what I've been through has actually been "too much". But, as far as progress, I don't really understand her process. She's using a technique called Somatic Experience, and keeps asking me to talk about my experiences, and then describe my "body sensations" as I talk about them. She'll ask if I feel "tense" when I come in (um, yes), then how my physical body sensations have changed after talking about stuff, and although I don't want to disappoint her, this hasn't helped at all. And I don't lie, so I tell her that.

So what do I do? I spend a few hours last night researching "Somatic Experience Therapy". I research the methodology (because she hasn't explained it to me), I watch a couple YouTube videos from US counsellors who use SE techniques. I try to figure out my counselor's approach and what I can do to improve the counseling sessions and make them more worthwhile for me... I practice SE techniques on myself.

I am trying to save or improve the very space that is designed for me to rest in the care of someone other than me. #Komododragon

Another practical example: Even as I write this now, in a separate part of my mind, I just saw the cover of a book I'll write called "Komodo Dragon: Embracing Your Inner Strength", so I stopped typing this and researched Komodo dragons to see if there is any sparkly significance to them that would make for good social media. There's not. They're venomous carnivores that can kill humans. Maybe another title.

[If you are a counselor reading this, don't try to analyze me or label it. Just let me be a little messy. You're probably messy too.]

These past few years have been full of so much beauty. Trips to Alaska to sail past glaciers and watch sunsets over the northern, icy waters. Road-trips across Spain and Portugal for our dear friends' destination wedding. Clinking champagne glasses in California as we honor my grandparents' 70 years of marriage. Albums and songs written, projects launched, healthy and deepening friendships, serving at a church we love. Paris. Laughter that was 100% laughter. Putting on a brave face because I am actually brave. Good dreams. Hundreds of wonderful nights and days, thousands of moments of joy that were fully felt and in no way clouded by sorrow.

So I am becoming okay with a very unpolished story right now. And okay with a counseling session that solves absolutely nothing, and leaves me less fixed than before, but planning to go back again.

I'm learning that good doesn't always need to outweigh bad. Sometimes they just co-exist, and sometimes it's more bad than good, but that it's good to not pretend one way or another. That doesn't make us basket cases, or "diagnosable", or depressed, or wayward Christians, that makes us flesh and blood, and dirt and bones.

What a mystery, sorrow and joy living under the same roof. Sometimes joy takes extra long naps.

We're resilient little things. Humans.

]]><![CDATA[COME OUT OF HIDING]]>Mon, 31 Aug 2015 06:31:27 GMThttp://www.blackleatherblankpage.com/blog-10057-big-words/come-out-of-hidingShe lost her hair in San Francisco, four weeks ago, on the windy Bay Ferry as she laughed and took pictures of me hanging over the boat's edge, one shaky hand on her iPhone, the other holding a steaming cup of coffee. She lost it as she tried on antique earrings at the Alameda Flea Market. She lost it as cold, white wind hit our faces on the tops of tourist buses. She lost it in handfuls in our tiny bathroom at The Chancellor Hotel, strands falling like dandelion wishes on the sink next to the complementary soap and shampoo. She lost it at the Sunday Farmer's Market as I devoured raw oysters and local peaches, she lost it watching seagulls. She lost it smiling, she lost it dancing to her favourite song, she lost it sleeping, she lost it lamp shopping in The Mission. And how lucky am I? To see her staring in the mirror as sun streaks through the 13th floor hotel window, trying on earrings and lipstick, seeing what works with this new look. How lucky am I? To be witness to the beautiful losing, knowing that there's somehow a winning buried in this somewhere.

This was her second trip to San Francisco. The first was years ago, before I was born, when she and my dad were first married. She joined him on a business trip and recalled how disappointed she was in a red Golden Gate Bridge. Memories of Irish Whiskeys drunk and streets devoured, and of bell bottoms rocked no doubt. As we road atop the tourist bus a few weeks ago, she spotted the very bar they spent their evenings in. I imagined my dad there, the life of the party to my mom's shy, the story teller to the listener, the extrovert to the odd, the jokester to the laugher, the pianist to the pitch-less. They are perfect in my memories, my parents together, their 42 years, me in 34 of them, my brother in 33. That's what memories do; they become perfect, and the rough edges of people smooth out and they glisten in your mind.

But my dad wasn't perfect.

So far from it. He'd laugh if he could read this, but not the part about my mom losing her hair. He'd be shocked that cancer didn't die with him this past January, but seemed to jump ship instead.

I can't believe it either. These past three months don't feel real. May 30th was her radical surgery; the radical midline cut starting from her bellybutton down, the Frankenstein staples holding her guts together, organs there her whole life gone in hours (jerks she didn't need anymore anyway). Days in the hospital, night sweats and nausea. And memories of my dad's fading to contend with; closets barely emptied, hangers still swinging on the racks, good suits and golf shirts delivered to The Salvation Army only weeks before.

Cancer in real life is nothing like the movies.

But neither is grace.

We have now just passed through three of six chemotherapy cycles. Her diagnosis has changed from one extremely rare and aggressive cancer to another, from carcinosarcoma of the fallopian tube to undifferentiated carcinoma. Two labs, two teams of pathologists, two different conclusions drawn, both knocking the wind out of us. But, human nature mingled with inherited God-nature makes us such hope-hunting creatures. And for hope we've definitely hunted. We're hopeful that this was caught before symptoms appeared, we're hopeful because it appears to be Stage 1C (confined to the offending organ and only a few rogue cells floating angrily around her pelvis), we're hopeful that she was optimally debulked in surgery, we're hopeful because we have a team of physicians working with us (from her primary oncologist to two naturopathic oncologists offering thorough adjuvant treatment options beyond chemo).

Now, here's where I should shift my prose to God-talk. Here feels like a good place in this story, a Christian-y place, to write eloquently about a hope in Christ that trumps all earthly, shifting hopes. Here's where I should say that a peace that passes understanding blankets me, my mom, our family. I'm a worship leader for an international church in Hong Kong, so here feels like the right time to say that James 1: 2-4 has been my scripture jam, that I've had it tattooed on my wrist underneath a black-inked lion. Here feels like the right time for me to tell you that I've considered all of this joy, these trials of many kinds, because it develops a perseverance in me so that I'll mature and lack nothing.

But, that wouldn't be real. When I hold my mom's hand as they put a needle through the surgical port in her chest, encouraging her to consider it joy just doesn't feel right (it may be right, but you give it a try). As I put my own health issues on the back burner and try to forget the forceful trigeminy arhythmic pounding in my chest, the trial doesn't feel joy-worthy. In church last Sunday, I sat with a friend whose bones and brain have been wracked by Stage IV cancer as she fought through a sight-blurring headache, and fought to stay lucid during worship. We didn't have the song "Happy Day" in the lineup last Sunday, but imagine if we had? How would God have met her in that song? I know He would have, I just don't know how. I held her, hugged her, saw such beauty in her, mourned with her.

Thank God for C.S. Lewis and others, like the Psalmists, like Jesus, who don't make life pretty but do breathe life into the weird concept of pain and beauty as partners.

In A Grief Observed, Lewis writes: “We were promised sufferings. They were part of the program. We were even told, 'Blessed are they that mourn,' and I accept it. I've got nothing that I hadn't bargained for. Of course it is different when the thing happens to oneself, not to others, and in reality, not imagination.”

Amen and amen.

I love that the author and dreamer of Narnia, of Aslan, a great Jesus-like-lion called his own faith a house of cards: "God has not been trying an experiment on my faith or love in order to find out their quality. He knew it already. It was I who didn't. In this trial He makes us occupy the dock, the witness box, and the bench all at once. He always knew that my temple was a house of cards. His only way of making me realize the fact was to knock it down.”

Consider my temple officially knocked down.

Do I put my hope in Christ? Every ounce of it. Every atom of it. Every electron. Do I trust Him? I do. The same way I trust fire to be white hot, the same way I trust snow to be white cold. I trust Him to the extreme. Because either I hope and trust Him with ferocity, or there's no point in hoping or trusting at all. He's not a lukewarm God, He makes that clear. But I do not like the experiences that He's asking me to trust Him through. And I do not have to like them to trust Him, thank God.

Do I think He's strong? Yes. Loving? The ultimate Romancer. Creative? Oh my goodness, have you seen my cat's eyes? Or sunsets in Boracay?

Do I think He's good, joy-worthy? Completely. But mysteriously. It's a mystery that I can see my dad go from dad to dead, from blood-pumping to blood-stilled and know I've just witnessed someone receiving the bounty from the greatest victory in history, the victory over death. I saw my dad get swallowed up by Life and on earth, to my tear-filled eyes, the scene before me was only a skeleton with cold hands under heavy blankets, but in another realm it must have looked magnificent. It's a mystery that my mom can lose her hair while staring at Alcatraz and that our first reaction was to change the lyrics of Tony Bennett's old song from "I Left My Heart in..." to "I Lost My Hair in San Francisco". Laughing the entire time. It's a mystery that my mom's first reaction to her diagnosis was gratitude for the goodness God has shown her throughout life, a counting and recounting of blessings.

As I walk this out and write about it here - as a daughter who's just lost her dad, a daughter whose mom is fighting the battle of her life half way around the world, as a worship leader for a large English speaking church in Hong Kong, as a writer of songs that people sing, a pop musician and lifestyle writing hopeful - I don't expect that I'll be able to do anything prettily. But I don't think we need pretty faith as much as we need faith-fought-for, raw, run over and redeemed.

I hope my faith is blossoming into the sort that allows me to stare at the bald, sick heads of my beloveds, hate it for them, but still sing.

]]><![CDATA[I BELIEVE IN MAGIC]]>Wed, 17 Jun 2015 10:01:17 GMThttp://www.blackleatherblankpage.com/blog-10057-big-words/i-believe-in-magicTen years ago, a winter Sunday, I drove my silver Xterra through drifts of white Colorado snow and icy streets to an early morning rehearsal at my church. The one that took place in an old, converted movie theatre with its red velvet seats and candy-counter-turned-welcome-desk. I was playing my violin with the band like I did almost every Sunday, in a room filled with 20- and 30-somethings, young families, lots of flannel, ski buffs, mountain climbers, artists, hipsters-before-that-was-a-thing and Jesus lovers. People came scruffy, with coffee in hand, and if you reached far enough under the tiered, old seats, you'd probably feel the sticky residue of old cokes drunk and spilled. Ghosts of movies watched. It wasn't the biggest church in Colorado Springs, but it felt like home to me, the people like family still.

It was cold that day, the snow thick outside and still clinging to boots. And as I played with the band during the first service, a peculiar thing happened. A summer butterfly flew in the room and landed at my feet. And stayed and stayed and stayed, with velvet wings slowly dancing. And stayed until the music ended, then flew away.

Winter. Remember? Weird.

I believe in magic. Not a spooky, witchy kind of magic. I believe in the kind of magic God makes. Oceans. The Northern Lights. Taste buds. Moss. The magic hour He gives photographers. Wrinkles. The chemistry between people. Chameleons. Starlings. Africa and Alaska. That the Vitamin C found in lemons and limes prevents scurvy. That tart cherries are full of melatonin. Geodes. Diamonds. Fire. That unicorns are mentioned in the Old Testament. Romance. Galaxies. The Smokey Mountains. Sharks. People. And especially (for me) butterflies.

Since that Sunday ten years ago, butterflies have been my thing with God. He uses them to remind me of His nearness in the most peculiar ways. Huge monarchs, I mean huge huge, will circle me. On my walk to work, winter or summer, they'll fly alongside me. Blue-hued butterflies, uncharacteristic on busy Hong Kong sidewalks, will walk timidly into my hand, stay for a while, they fly away.

So, you can usually catch me looking up and around, watching the sky and the ground for my next encounter. I think God likes my anticipation.

Yesterday afternoon, though, I wasn't looking for anything from God. I was kind of done with it for the day. I'd spent all morning praying for my mom, for my family, hoping for good news from her oncologist. Hoping that the pathology was finally back, two weeks after her surgery. Hoping that the Stage 1C he'd originally suspected after surgery was accurate, and that the scary news since surgery (that the mass looked "angry" under the microscope, that pathologists have been having a hard time determining the tumor's origin since cells are so undifferentiated, that we still don't know anything) would be cleared up. Instead, her doctor said we're to continue waiting, that second and third opinions are needed. Several sets of eyes glued to microscopes trying to figure out what we're dealing with.

After a quick sushi lunch with Jeff, we walked down traffic-heavy Kings Road in Quarry Bay and took the lift up to the 8F. Nearly to my office, a friend stopped me in the hall and asked, "Are you wearing a butterfly?" What? No, of course not.

But somehow, on my walk from Genki Sushi at Fitfort, an orange and black butterfly had landed on me, ridden with me up the lift, and made my back its home for nearly two hours. I took him on walks around the office, showed everyone. He went with me to meetings, to the bathroom, took phone calls with me. Occasionally opening and closing his wings, proving to everyone he was alive, little heart beating.

My friend Kat told me that the lifespan of butterflies is short. Sometimes only days. She said, "He chose to spend a good part of his life with you."

I really needed some magic yesterday.

]]><![CDATA[HOURS]]>Mon, 01 Jun 2015 06:51:27 GMThttp://www.blackleatherblankpage.com/blog-10057-big-words/hoursIt's hours, just hours before my Texas-born and Texas-stayed mom gets driven to the hospital for her first surgery. Her first time experiencing that solid black anaesthesia sleep that I know well, her first time being woken out of that sleep into a blissful delirium and hopefully miracle news. A week ago, operating rooms weren't on the horizon, nor was the need for miracle prayers.

Last Thursday, I woke around 5am and began getting ready to drive to an abandoned Sai Kung village to film a music video for our song This Is How I Know. Our neighbour across the hall has the bone structure of a Donatello sculpture, but that's not why we asked him to be our actor in two film projects. He's majoring in modern dance and there's something remarkably beautiful about the human body when it's used wholly to worship. He was waiting outside our door by the lift when I got a message from my brother.

"Mom's got health stuff. She wants to tell you, not me."

My family is close. We've always been close, like telekinesis close, but especially over the last two years following my dad's cancer diagnosis. And especially since his death on January 15, 2015 at 10:15pm. A little over three months ago. I called my mom immediately, but rather than hearing her voice I get a text message with results from the abdominal and pelvic ultrasound I'd asked her to get as a preventative measure, since no symptoms or history would warrant it.

I saw phrases like 8cm pelvic mass with blood flow suspicious of tubal malignancy, liver lesions possibly benign but primary or secondary malignancy cannot be ruled out, uterine lesion, fluid in pelvic cavity. I know how to read a scan. I know what those words mean. And I texted my mom one word with extra letters and punctuation: Noooooooooo!!!

She called me then and with faith and peace-filled words, so her style, told me what had transpired over the previous week. She had received a call by the head radiologist saying he wanted to repeat her ultrasound personally before confirming any results. He was kind, with a surname that implied Mexican descent, though my mom was convinced he was French based on demeanour and accent. When she asked him about his faith, he said, "I've got two girlfriends. My wife and the Virgin Mary. I listen to both." We'll take it. He and two radiological interns gathered in a dark room and looked at my mom's insides. Whatever they were seeing was rare, so rare that interns were allowed in the room as a training exercise (very Grey's Anatomy), and whatever they were seeing in her body didn't belong there.

I helped my mom make quick decisions about next steps, did quick research and confirmed the best Ob/Gyn oncologist in El Paso, and encouraged her to quickly make an appointment. Then it was quickly her Texas bedtime, and I was left with what felt like a flaming arrow impaling my chest when what I really wanted was to crawl into my mom's lap. Or to wake from what felt like a dream.

And all this news came crashing down before 6am in Hong Kong, the sun barely given a chance to wake. I told Jeff to film the music video without me and I put on ugly shorts, an old T-Shirt, a hat and threw my plain black Moleskine journal in a flowered backpack and left. I needed to walk and walk and walk and breathe. Near our flat is a park where the elderly do Tai Chi and bring their caged birds. I circled the park a hundred million times with my hat pulled low and tears streaming down my face. I prayed single words. No. No. No. Why. No.

Still, no solace.

When Jeff got home from filming, I asked him to drive me to Big Wave Bay in the rain. I needed to swim in my clothes and be a mermaid without her tail. I've always loved the water. Ocean or lake or river, even pool. Some would say it's because I'm a March baby, a Pisces, but I know it's because oceans and lakes and rivers sound like what I imagine God's voice sounds like. Deep and rushing. Rather than swimming, I paced the empty beach with Jeff in tow, with rain and wind coming at me. And I wondered how I could possibly lead worship for four huge events over the next few days. How could I sing of a faithful God, of a God who fights for us, of a God of blessings when it felt like I'd walked valley sans peak too long?

I've read the book of Job before. I find the language beautiful, the suffering painful and a strong God who says things like this to Job: "Have you ever gotten to the true bottom of things, explored the labyrinthine caves of deep ocean? Do you know the first thing about death? Do you have one clue regarding death's dark mysteries?" I think the moral of the story is that God is big, Job is not and Job's friends are losers for trying to figure God out and decipher the meaning of suffering. I also think that we're somehow supposed to be encouraged that all of Job's immeasurable losses (his health, his entire first family, everything) were nothing compared to God's blessings (restored health, a whole new family, life and the ravishing chance to converse with God). I know there are a thousand spirit-encouraging things we're supposed to pull from Job's story because, in different seasons, I've pulled sheer beauty from the book. But not today. I still can't get past the fact that he lost his first family in the first place. Won't he miss them? Were they really that replaceable?

This awful, dark-newsed Thursday raged by with me limping and lagging behind. And then came the first of four worship events on Friday, leading a citywide gathering of local Chinese churches. Then the second event came on Saturday, leading a room full of beautiful women in song at a two-day conference. Then came Sunday morning and my sweet church, me behind a microphone fighting to offer an authentic sacrifice of praise. Then came Sunday afternoon and the invitation to lead worship at The Vine, another vibrant church in Hong Kong. And all this worship rushed over me and through me, despite me, and it had its magic way in my spirit. The songs that we'd written months before holding new power: "I will testify of love that won't retreat, sure of what's to come, of things I can't yet see. I will testify of love that ransomed me, by the blood of Christ on Calvary. Peace comes like a river over me. Crystalline waters wash me clean. Even from the shoreline, all will see. Perfect Love, baptise me."

Yes. Okay. Breathe.

I moved away from Job and dove into John and the Jesus of the book of John. And this all while on a whirlwind, previously planned trip to South Korea with Jeff and two close friends. [Yes, life in Hong Kong is hyper-speed.] We were scheduled to take a redeye flight on Monday morning (1am) from Hong Kong to Seoul, a celebratory three day getaway following that weekend filled with big music events. I wanted to cancel, but knew in my spiritual recesses that joy is worship and is always a great way to combat darkness. So, we flew.

And over these next few days I began to see light breaking through darkness, miracles if you're inclined to believe that they still happen (and I am very much inclined) and a steadying of my faith. My brother's childhood friend, part of his inner circle, happens to be a doctor and works down the hall from the oncologist slated to perform my mom's surgery. She was able to speak with him about my mom's case, which in turn allowed my mom quick access to a doctor in high demand. Then, after a 24 hour fast and intense period of worship and prayer with friends, I prayed (and wrote in my journal) that there would be no evidence of cancer in my mom's blood markers. Immediately after praying this prayer, I receive a text from my mom that said, "Hurray, no cancer markers in my blood!"

Countless other little (big) assurances that God is moving have occurred, but none more beautiful than simply reading the Bible and allowing the living words to transform my spirit. In John, we see Jesus perform His first miracle, turning water into wine and saving the best wine for last. We see Jesus speaking to the Samaritan woman at the well, lush words of a living, unending water supply instead of a paltry bucketful. We see a lame man pick up his mat and walk on the Sabbath. We see 5000 gorging themselves on bread and fish with leftovers. We see a king's court official pleading with Jesus to heal his son who was on the brink of death. Jesus appears to say no at first, "Unless you people are dazzled by a miracle, you refuse to believe." But then Jesus appears to change his mind after the man's continued pleading, saying, "Go home. Your son lives." And then we learn that, "Not only he but his entire household believed."

I don't know the ins and outs of the theology here; but I do know that I feel like I've been given permission to ask Jesus to change His mind if complete healing wasn't initially going to be a part of my mom's story on earth. I do feel confident in praying for complete healing without the "if it's Your will" clause. I'm learning that I'm timid in my asking.

So, with less than hours to go before knife hits skin and answers come, I am believing not for medium news, or okay news, but for an outpouring of gracious healing because, in my heart, I don't believe that sickness is the next chapter in this story.

The song I wrote for my dad has become my mom's song too.

Unveil my eyes
Let me see beyond my own sight
Where angels fly and fight for me
Unveil my eyes
Keep my focus ever on You
Let me see the things You see

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