HOURS

It'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