small

Last week I picked up 6-year-old Lewis and 4-year-old Clark so their mom could have a free afternoon.  First we went to my house and read Curious George stories, drank lemonade and played hide-and-seek.  And then I took them to lunch at Red Robin which, they informed me, is their favorite restaurant in the whole entire world.

When we walked in, the hostess offered the boys balloons.  Lewis declined, informing me that he was too old for balloons, but Clark could hardly contain himself when the hostess handed him a white balloon tethered by a long white string.

We sat down in a booth and ordered our lunch. When the food came, Clark struggled to hold onto his balloon and drink out of his cup at the same time.  I offered to tie the balloon around his wrist so he didn’t have to hold onto it, but he wouldn’t let me.  He kept trying to eat and hold it at the same time, but half-way through the meal he lost his grip, and the balloon floated up to the ceiling.

“Oh no!” Clark cried.  He jumped up onto the seat and stood on his tip-toes, trying to reach the string.  When he saw that it was out of his reach, he climbed up onto the table top and jumped for it.  “Come back!”  he yelled at the balloon.  “Come back!”

I pulled him down onto the seat next to me.  “It’s okay,” I said.  “Finish your lunch and I’ll get it for you before we leave.”

He climbed up onto the table and jumped for the balloon a few more times before he finally resigned to a balloon-less lunch.  He sat down next to me and hugged his knees to his chest.  “I feel small,” he told me.

I scooped his petit frame into my lap, kissed the top of his head and said, “You are small.  But I love you.”

He rested his head on my chest and sighed.

*

This past week was unusually difficult, even by my standards. 

I found out that someone I cared about very much had died unexpectedly.  I’ve continued to have conversations with my financial planner and attorney about Unum, trying to untangle how the payments got so messed up.  And I’ve been dealing with some other things that I might not be able to write about for a very long time.

In the middle of this, I went to church with a friend.  After the service, we walked down a hallway behind the main sanctuary that leads to a small prayer chapel – a simple space that’s been filled with leather couches, throw rugs, and lots of white candles. 

When we walked into the chapel, she caught her breath.  “God’s here,” she said.

I nodded.

“No, He’s really here,” she said.

I laughed.  “I know!” I said.

We sat down on cushions on the floor, and she said, “I feel like I’m supposed to pray for you.  What do you need?”

At first I said, “I can’t think of anything.  I’m fine.”

She raised her eyebrows, and I shrugged. We sat in silence for a while.  And then everything I’d been dealing with the past few weeks welled up and I rested my arms on my knees, put my head down, and cried.  “I’m so tired,” I said. As she prayed for me, I prayed my own simple prayer. 

God, I feel small.

*

A few days later, I had an oncology appointment.  I dread those visits more than anything.  It’s unnerving to sit in a quiet waiting room with balding, pale, bruised patients, listening to the clock on the wall tick away the seconds of our lives.  And then there’s the blood draw in the lab.  And then the wait in the cold exam room while I’m wondering what the lab tests are showing, praying the tumor markers are staying put, wondering what I’m going to do if they’re not.

My oncologist came in the room.  He’s a tall giant of a man, but he’s soft-spoken and gentle. “How are you?” he asked.

I nodded.  “I’m okay,” I said.

“You lost five pounds since your appointment six weeks ago,” he said.

“I’ve been under a lot of stress,” I said, making a mental note to remind myself to sleep and eat – two things I don’t do very well when I’m preoccupied or sick.

We talked about my labs, my treatment plan, the treatment side effects and my medication doses. Then he said, “Anything else?”

“One more thing,” I said.  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I wanted to ask you to stop checking my tumor markers.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Well, checking markers hasn’t been shown to impact survival,” I said.  “And I’m not up for another long fight.  If my cancer recurs, I just want to go Home.”

“Okay,” he said quietly, and drew a line through that blood test in my chart.

A few minutes later, I was in the chemo room, an IV in my hand, a clear bag of chemicals dripping into my arm.

I closed my eyes for a while and prayed that the medicine would work, that the side effects wouldn’t be as bad as they usually are, that God would give me all the grace and strength I need – because I need a lot right now.

My last treatment of the day was an injection into my abdomen with a 14-guage needle. As I layed on my back on the exam table, ready to get stabbed, I closed my eyes and told God again, I feel small.

*

This week one of the pastors at my church asked if I’d write something for Advent.  I thought about Mary getting the news from the angel that she was going to bring the Messiah into the world.

Most people say Mary was surprised because she was seeing an angel, because she was a virgin, because she wasn’t one of the religious leaders. 

But I think the biggest surprise was that God was speaking – because no one had heard from God in 400 years.  He’d spoken through the prophets for centuries, and then suddenly He went silent. 

I wonder what was going through the Israelites’ mind during that time.  What gave them the faith to keep celebrating the Jewish holidays and feasts, to keep praying, to keep offering sacrifices, to keep anticipating the Messiah when Yahweh seemed to have forgotten all about them?

But God hadn’t forgotten.  He had the perfect plan and the perfect timing, and when He came back into the picture, ending the dark ages of the intertestamental period, He told Mary, “Stop waiting; start expecting.”

Start having hope – not just for heaven, but for now. Start expecting redemption – not just on gold streets in eternity, but here on the dusty streets of Nazareth.  Start experiencing the Promise – not just as symbols and shadows, but as the real thing.

Last night I went back to the prayer chapel to pray and work on the Advent piece.  I’d been there for about half an hour when a church security guard rushed in with his badge and a Maglite © and said, “The building’s on lockdown.  Don’t leave until I tell you it’s clear.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“There are armed police with dogs surrounding the building.  They’re on a manhunt.”

“Okay,” I said.  “I guess I’ll pray for that, too.”

I texted a friend to tell him what was happening.

He texted me back, asking if I had my pepper spray handy.

I told him it was in the glove box of my car.  “But it’s okay,” I wrote to him.  “Because I’m surrounded by hundreds of candlesticks.” I eyed a 6-foot-tall silver candlestick with a sharp metal cross etched at the top.  I pictured myself running toward an intruder, holding the unwieldy candlestick above my head like a sacred harpoon of sorts.   I decided it would probably suffice.

I sat in the quiet chapel for another hour before the guard came back and told me it was safe to leave.  As I walked to my car, I started laughing. Because I can’t even go to a quiet space to pray without attracting some kind of drama.

Because even on my best days, I am not in control. 

Because on my worst days, I am also not in control.

Because even when God seems silent and far away, He is always near enough to hear me whisper, “I feel small.” 

And He’s always waiting to pull me onto his lap and remind me, “You are small.  But it’s okay – because I love you.”

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