A couple of Sundays ago, Pastor Alan talked about John. Or, was it James? Paul, maybe? One of those disciples who was in a Roman prison chained to a guard twenty-four, seven. I think it was John. Anyway, he was talking about how John served a role through his sentence. He wrote letters to followers. He taught and witnessed. People came to see him and he counselled them. Maybe he didn't like his sterile digs. And, being chained to someone means they will have to watch you use the bathroom. But, it also means that they hear every word you say. The guards listened as John counselled people. The guards, when their century was over, went home. The guards told their friends the stories, the lessons, the hope. Those people then told their family. Do you follow the chain reaction here? John came to acknowledge and found peace with his service to the world even though he sat in a prison chained to a Roman guard.
When you are faced with an illness that will ultimately kill you, you are in a prison. There is no way of knowing how long you will serve the sentence. As your body fights and relinquishes, your mind builds your prison walls. Mine are covered in lavender and peach roses. As I struggle to understand the profound burden of having cancer, I have to make decisions. I can a. go crawl in the corner of a grey prison with no windows. Or, b. chip away at the mortar so the garden can creep in to mask the harsh stones of reality.
Okay, that was a little abstract so let me explain further. I have found the service in my sentence. The other day, I was talking to a friend and received some bad news about her sister's health, brain tumor. She stated, "I think I have known you for the past three years to get me ready for this." She went on to explain that all this time she would think of me and what I was going through. If something bad happened, it couldn't be as bad as what Sara is dealing with. So it seemed easier. Now, they have to deal with walls of a prison being built with no rhyme or reason. Yet, I have given her hope and endurance through my own perseverance. In a sense, like John, I have witnessed to her faith.
It is humbling to be told that I am an inspiration. Friends, family, people far away, and others I have just met tell me that I inspire them. I wrestle with this compliment. Who me? Me, inspiring? How can my living be inspiring? You have to be kidding. Alas, I now know that this is the role I am to serve. If you want to stay at the surface level and ask why me? Then you would say, well, why not me? Did I get cancer so I could be an inspiring survivor? Did John have to be in jail to be heard? I try not to go to that place of reasoning to find purpose. Well, maybe it is so. So be it. I am out on parole for good behavior. Take from me what you need. I will humbly bow to you and show you how to keep your prison walls filled with holes so the sunlight and garden creep in to make it a peaceful place. Rock on, Baby. Go listen to the rain and be still. Rest your mind. Breath.
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