Oozing like Ethan

I met him last Wednesday night at church.  He was easily recognizable in a room packed with 5th and 6th graders, because he was bald.  Only one 12-year old kid I know that runs with those boys who is bald.  Ethan Hallmark.  Cancer fighter.  Cancer survivor.

Even from 10 feet away, I could tell this kid was different, and I wanted to figure out why. 

And then this morning it struck me.  That young man oozes conviction about the Lord's faithfulness.  He doesn't even have to say one word.  You can just feel his resolve to trust in the Lord. 

And I realize that I want what Ethan has.  I want to be so totally consumed by conviction of the Lord's faithfulness, that it oozes right out of me.  Yeah, that's the kind of relationship I want with the Lord. 

I'm a work in progress.  But I will say that after fighting cancer myself, I know I'm closer to oozing like Ethan.  Learning to cling to Jesus no matter what your circumstances and knowing He will be faithful to you is a process.  It takes time.  You have to learn to drink deeply from that pool of resolve.
And the enemy hates you for it every time you do it.

Make no mistake.  We have all faced the enemy, and done our share of shrinking into a corner rather than call out to the Lord.  But then sometimes--hopefully more often as we learn to trust the King of Kings--rather than shrink into a corner, we choose to look the enemy in the eye and say, "You know what?  Sometimes you make me feel defeated.  But not today.  Today I choose to trust in the Lord's faithfulness.  Peace out!"

He has been faithful to you, Beloved!  He has redeemed your life from the pit, and He crowns you with His love and compassion (Psalm 103:4).

Ooze, Baby, Ooze!

Can't make me shut up

Now, you first have to appreciate that I have presented in front of 500 plus scientists at a time.  Lectured to over 100 post-grad students in one sitting, taught 60 plus 5th and 6th graders a few times, and wrangled a class room of pre-schoolers for ten years before that. 

But nothing made me sweat quite like the presentation I made this morning.

That's how I knew it was from God.  Because Nancy would never have thought this one up.

I had bought a big bag of chocolates to take to work today.  You see, today marks the one year anniversary that I am cancer free.  On this day one year ago, Dr. Leitch at UT Southwestern removed a grade 1 breast cancer with clean margins and no lymph node involvement.  It was a great day, and I wanted to pass out multitudes of chocolates at work today to celebrate.

I'm still going to do that.

But God took it that one crazy step further and suggested in my heart that I do the same thing on the DART bus this morning.  And on the train.  And on the shuttle across campus. 

So I did.

"Can I have your attention please?"  I croaked out as I stood up on the DART bus.  "Today, I am one year cancer free, and I just want to invite you to have a chocolate and remember the sweetness of Jesus' grace and mercy on me today."

They all clapped, and the bag of chocolates started going around the bus.

The lady in front of me is cancer free 9 years.  The lady beside me said a prayer over me.  The man behind me and the man in front of me thanked me for sharing.  Several said that I had made their day.

You see, people crave to hear good news.  And this morning, God used me to give them some.

So do not fear, for I am with you.  Do not be dismayed, for I am our God.  I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.  Isaiah 41:10

He has lifted me up, and I am compelled to lift my life up to Him.

Satan stands in the wings trying to convince me otherwise.

But I am a cancer survivor.  And he can't make me shut up about the greatness of God.

How this cancer survivor stopped letting the enemy into my space

She's so petite, that when she sat at my desk, you couldn't even tell she had sat down.  It was last Wednesday morning, and Rachel, a petite woman with a thick Indian accent had come to my office to ask me a question.

"Nancy, were you sick last summer?"

I sat back and told her that yes, I had had breast cancer last year, and went through surgery, chemotherapy and radiation.

And for the next 30 minutes, the Holy Spirit spoke directly to me through this petite woman with the Indian accent.  She told me that she could feel the Light of Jesus on me, that she knows I have experienced a miraculous and complete healing, and that I continue to let the spirit of fear rule over me.

Wow.  And I didn't even know she was a Christian--and I have known her for 15 years.

"Nancy" she said in that fantastic clipped Indian accent, "When that spirit of fear comes over you, do you know who it is that is pushing that on you?"

She didn't give me time to answer.

"Nancy, that is Satan pushing on you.  The spirit of fear does not come from The Lord, Nancy, that comes from Satan.  You must recognize it for what it is, stand up and rebuke him in the name of the Lord.  You are a daughter of the living Christ!"

She was so excited, I thought for sure she would be standing up.  Not that I could tell from this side of the desk (see the first sentence if you don't get this).

When she left, I remember thinking how merciful The Lord is to send someone in the middle of this very ungodly environment I work in to bathe me in His Word...using a thick Indian accent.  Fabulous!

Then two days later, I was back in that pit of fear.  Oh, you know for some cancer survivors, every little bump or tender spot has the worst case scenario attached to it.  Especially for a professional pit dweller such as myself.

I had let Satan into my space.  And I let him smolder in my space, tasting the ashes of doubt he flung in my air, choking on the smoke of despair he filled my space with.   It took me 2 days before I had the savvy to call a trusted friend and let her know where I was at.

And she called it for what it is by asking me a question. 

"Nancy, that Indian lady...she proclaimed to you and confirmed that God had given you a miraculous healing last year.  Do you trust God to have done it?"

Well, up until that moment, I thought I did.

And Jesus said to her, "Daughter, your faith has healed you.  Go in peace and be freed from your suffering".  Mark 5:34

I don't read anywhere in the Bible where that daughter of the Lord came back to touch His robe again, just in case it hadn't worked completely the first time.  I like to think she left His presence that day, grinning ear to ear and proclaiming Jesus to whoever would listen.

That's where I should be.  That's where you should be.  For we have all been redeemed.

So I stood up from my pink camo chair on my back porch dressed in my pink and white fleece pants and flip flops and I spoke in my teacher voice, "Satan, you are in my space, and in the name of Jesus, I command you to GET OUT. This is NOT your space.  I belong to the most high living God!"

And just like that--I kid you NOT--just like that, the peace of God which passes all understanding flooded my space and I breathed the cool crisp clean air of Jesus.

Everyday is a brand new mercy.  So say Hello to a new you, and stop letting the enemy into YOUR space.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UG6Aa3DIg9Q

Coping with Joy

The best part was Nicole asking me on a fairly regular basis, “Are you doing OK?”  Because I didn’t cry.  Not once during the whole thing.  I mean, I whipped that bandana off, stuck it in my bag, chatted through the foil, teased Nicole during my shampoo, listened carefully to instructions during the fussy part of how to get my hair to look like that again tomorrow, and I was….

Fine.

Until the very end as I was about to step out that door into the street after it was all done. 

And then the tears rushed.  Nicole was pressing tissues into my hand, and stood with me while I stared at that door.  I sensed it was a big moment, and I just couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

It wasn’t fear.  It wasn’t sorrow.  It wasn’t anxiety.  No, those are big feelings that I am very familiar with.

It was…

Joy.  No, more than that.  It was jubilation.

And I could hear Jesus say to me “WOMAN, THOU ART LOOSED”.

And then I was grinning.

You see, just like the woman in Luke 13:12, I was afflicted with a horrible disease.  And before I even knew I had breast cancer, Jesus answered my need.

But my main need was not to be cancer free.  Oh, I got that too—but the need I really had was to be released from a lifetime habit of living in the slimy pit of Psalm 40:2 and live instead in the joy of being redeemed. 

But for me, that slimy pit was comfortable.  And my bandana reminded me of that slimy pit I was in.  It blanketed me in the comfort of fear, sorrow, and anxiety that came with being a cancer patient.

I know, it may seem backwards to some of you.  But I also know there are more like me out there, too.  People who are more comfortable with their slimy pit epics than they are the joys of a redeemed life.  People who cope with joyful moments, but in the back of their minds are always focused on the slimy pit.

You know who you are.

Make no mistake.  I experience joy and love life.  I am genuinely thankful for the blessings I have.  The smile on my face is not fake.  It’s just that most of the time, I am more comfortable experiencing the slimy pit. 

But in those steps I took from Nicole’s place into the street, I stopped being a cancer patient and I became a cancer survivor.  A woman loosed.  Out of the pit.

It is MY YEAR OF JUBILEE.

I am not sure you can understand what it feels like.  Maybe this picture will help.  You are in a giant box whose walls are covered with paper.  You keep peeling away papers looking for a way to get out, but there is just always more paper.  But you keep on peeling the paper off, and it gets deep around your feet.  But you just know somewhere there must be a door.  Or a window.  Or at least just a little crack of light that you can look out at something else for awhile.  But instead, there’s just more paper, and soon you are shoulder deep in papers that you have peeled off the walls trying to get out.  So then, you stop focusing on getting out, and start focusing on how to organize the papers so that you at least have a spot to sit.  And pretty soon, you are so busy organizing papers, you forget all about the quest for a door to get out, and instead focus on a lower expectation of just a bare spot on the floor to sit on.  And then—POOF!  All the papers and the walls made out of paper are gone.  And you stand in the bright sunlight with green grass as far as you can see and blue skies smiling at you in every direction and part of you is like, “HEY!  Where are my papers?  I worked a long time on that project!” 

You need to learn to cope with joy.

But it takes a while.

It takes a while to realize you are seeing beyond those walls.  It takes a while for it to sink in that you are seeing green grass and blue sky in every direction.  And then you take one step onto that grass.  And then another.  And then your steps get faster, and you are running with all your might across that green grass, pumping your arms and legs with all you are.

And the Father of Heaven who loves you so much is right there next to you running and grinning with you.

It is your Year of Jubilee.

So…new project.  I need to learn how to cope with joy.  Because I desire to run with all my might across that green grass, just as the Lord intended for me.  To get there, I am going to do three things.  First, I am gong to let the Lord know my intentions.  I want to honor Him by accepting the jubilation He offers me with both hands, and to do that, I am going to need His help.  Second, I am going to read the Book of Philippians every morning for the next 30 days.  Paul the Apostle wrote that book while he was in prison, and it is full of joy—what better way to immerse myself in the idea of joy than that?  Third, I am going to read Beth Moore’s book “Get out of that pit!”   There is nothing more powerful than the testimony of someone else who has been a professional pit-dweller.

Who knew a simple haircut could do all of THAT?

Chemo Hair, Beware

March 1^st is going to be a fabulous day for me.  You see, today is my last day wearing bandanas on the top of my head.   Tomorrow I get highlights and a haircut meant for a girl who wants to grow her hair back long like it was before my chemo treatments.

My hairdresser, Nicole, God love her—met me after hours Tuesday to see what we have to work with.  When I took off my hat—the tears started to flow and that hat went straight back on my head.  Nicole had about a 30 second look at it.  So different from my friend, Judy, who just finished chemo and showed me her bald head right in the middle of church. 

I’m such a baby.

But in my defense, I have had long red curly hair all of my adult life.  This no hair/short hair thing is overwhelming to me.

So now I’m actually talking to my Chemo Hair.  You know, saying things like “We’re going to be fine”, “You’ll like all that goop I will have to put in you”, “You grew in so nice and thick, nothing to worry about there”, “Keep your eye on the goal and keep growing”, “Don’t worry, nobody will look at us funny, I promise”, “Yes, we can put a bandana back on, but only once in awhile”…

And I’m wondering if anybody else out there talks to their Chemo Hair.

Back to Nicole. 

So I slipped my hat back on my head with the tears flowing, and she put her arm on my shoulder and said some very comforting things I can’t remember.  And then she told me the plan, and I felt much better.  But I am quite nervous to ditch the bandana look.  Why?

I’m still thinking on that (which is why this is a two-part post), but meanwhile, I thought that maybe some of you would be interested to read my viewpoint on THE PHASES OF CHEMO HAIR.

Phase 1:  Oh, it’s not going to fall out.  They tell you that your hair may or may not fall out on the cytoxan/taxol chemo regimen.  And so after the first treatment, you’re thinking well, hey!  Maybe I’m one of the lucky ones!  Then one day you get a few more hairs in your brush than what you think is normal, but you dismiss the idea, and then all of a sudden, there’s no doubt that you are going to lose your hair because everytime you pull your hands through your hair, you get handfuls of the stuff.

Phase 2:  It’s not so bad being bald.  Then you find yourself staring at yourself in the mirror.  I mean, who has ever seen you bald as an adult, and when will THAT ever happen again?  You get really sad about not having any head hair, but the perk is that you don’t have hair anywhere, and that makes a summer of swimming suits exceptionally awesome!

Phase 3:  I’m sick of being bald.  Self explanatory.  I mean, there are only so many things you can put on your head, and you still can’t hide the fact that you are bald, or fix the fact that your head and the tips of your ears (that’s perhaps the worst part) are always COLD unless you have your head under a heat lamp.

Phase 4:  Will it ever grow back?  After chemo, there are these agonizing weeks where you wait for your hair to start coming back, and you wonder if it will.  For me, I had these gray hairs that never fell out, and was otherwise bald, so I felt like an old troll most of the time.  I never spent so much time in front of a mirror waiting for hair to grow.

Phase 5:  Baby Chick.  When I had about half an inch of soft chemo hair covering my head, I looked like a baby chick.  It stuck up perfectly straight all over, and people who knew me would stick their hand under my bandana and rub the baby chick hair.

Phase 6:  Orangutan.    When I had about 2 inches of hair covering my head, I looked like an orangutan.  Particularly when I got out of the shower—I had red hair sticking straight up in all directions.

Phase 7:  Chemo Hair, Beware.  This is when you start thinking you need to ditch the head gear, and show off your new hair.  And then other people start asking you the same thing.  You and your chemo hair cringe with the question, because change is inevitable, and the comfort of the bandana must go.  Can cause mixed feelings in some rather high strung red-heads.

I’ll let you know how tomorrow goes.

All Hat, No Cowboy

I’m sure I picked up the phrase from some movie.  We use it in our house as sort of a “catch all” for people that seem really great, but when you dig a little deeper…well, their outsides don’t match their insides.  And at least every cowboy I have ever known—well, what you see is what you get—and no matter how deep you dig, they are who they are all the way through.  Their actions match who they say they are.

But then there are the ones who just wear the hat, and you think they are all cowboy, but once you start talking to them, well….they’re just “All Hat, No Cowboy”.  Their actions just don’t match who they say they are.

Grace, our nine-year old daughter, particularly likes to use this phrase if the conversation turns to some superstar like Justin What’s-His-Name.  She will grumble “All Hat, No Cowboy”, and we all know what that means. 

A phrase like that requires a standard.  You know, a reference point.  Who do you compare the new subject to in deciding if they are “All Hat, No Cowboy” or “All Cowboy”?  For Grace, I think her standard is a spectacular choice.  It’s her daddy.  Because he is definitely “All Cowboy”.  With or without the hat.

And his outsides match his insides at all times.

As a family, I think last year we experienced just how “All Cowboy” he really is.  From the very beginning when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, Vern kept his faith in the Lord, continued to lead our family with a servant’s heart, and handed out a bus load of encouragement to his wife with unceasing devotion.

He actions match who he says he is.  At.  All. Times.

Looking back, I am not sure that I have thanked him enough.  In fact, I have to confess that sometimes I have treated him like he is “All Hat”.  And I wonder, Ladies.  Are we doing a good job nurturing the cowboy in our husbands?  Because God did not create our men to be “All Hat”.  He created them to be “All Cowboy”. 

The Girl at DEFCON 5

So, I am at my 3-month regular check-up with my oncologist, the quite brilliant Dr. Klemow at UT Southwestern Medical Center.  Everything looks great, you (Nancy) are doing great, you breezed through your treatments, and your recovery was quick.  But wait.  What’s this?  You haven’t had your 6-month mammogram?  Well, let’s take care of THAT.

At first I thought it was quite awesome.  I mean, Classic Nancy-style, if I had actually scheduled the thing, I would have had months to get all nice and worked up about it.  This way, I had no time to get all worked up.  Or so I thought.

I love UTSWMC Imaging.  You get a pink cape and a pink robe—all from the warming cabinet so you are all toasty warm.  Carla did my imaging, and you just have to love her, too.  She is always so upbeat, and sympathetic about the tenderness of a breast that has been through a lot in less than a year.

Sympathetic, but while she drizzles those sincere smiles at you, her hands are busy cranking your girls into pancakes to get the perfect images.

Nothin’ but love for ya, Carla.

So afterwards, I’m waiting for the radiologist, but here comes Carla.  They have found some calcifications and need to do some more imaging to see what it is.

To a cancer survivor, “calcifications on the images” is the last thing you want to hear.  And certainly not for a girl like me who is hard wired to have anxiety. I instantly went to DEFCON 3.

First thing I did was dig in my pockets looking for my scriptures.  But I had not put any of them in my pockets that day.  I hit DEFCON 4 in under a second.  I had been putting scriptures in my pockets, because when I have anxiety, all the scripture I have memorized goes straight out of my head—so I have found it’s just best to write them down and stuff them in my pockets.  I forgot I had a Bible in my purse.

I followed Carla back to have my girls cranked again, totally dazed.  Afterwards, she sent me back to the waiting room.

Since it was the end of the day, nobody else was in the waiting room.  That sick, familiar feeling of panic on a platform of being alone washed over me.  Classic, Nancy.  Just classic.

I couldn’t call Vern—no signal—so I tried to rationalize with myself.  It couldn’t be cancer again.  My surgery margins were clean.  There was no lymph node involvement.  I had chemo.  Radiation.  I didn’t have any of the cancer genes.  I was on Tamoxifen.

DEFCON 5 anyway. 

And that’s when I got mad at myself.  I mean, SERIOUSLY?  After all that God had brought me through, I was going to default to DEFCON 5 in under 5 minutes? I had thought my faith had gotten so much stronger through all of that business, but where was my faith now?  I could almost feel Satan sitting next to me, all smug—enjoying the show.

So I stood up.  I stood up and I simply said, “Lord, I am your child and I need HELP! Remember me!”

Just then, the radiologist came in and explained that I did have a few calcifications at the site of the surgery, and that it is quite common—and they are harmless.  Nothing to worry about.

I don’t remember getting dressed, or walking out.  I remember calling Vern.  I remember how rubbery my legs were.  I remember getting into the truck.  And I remember totally losing it.  Sobs of grief over my unhealthy talent to hit DEFCON 5 status in less than 5 minutes.  Reminded again, that I am unworthy of the Lord’s mercy on me.  And I was never more grateful than I was at that moment that I was a child of God and did not have to earn His love.

And then, knowing I had His abundant love even while at DEFCON 5—well, the tears dried up, and I was grinning ear to ear with joy.

I had reclaimed the good news for myself, and the verse came into my head as clearly as if I had been reading it straight from the Word:

Neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.  Romans 8:39

Your love is deep.  Your love is high.  Your love is long.  Your love is wide.

Your love is deeper than my view of grace; Higher than this worldly place; Longer than this road I've traveled; Wider than the gap You've filled.

Praise be to God that I can’t earn His love!  Praise be to God that He abundantly loves the girl who can get to DEFCON 5 in under 5 minutes!  He deserves every shred of gratitude in me for that.  Every.  Shred.