Worship Music

Reruns of Chopped, binge watching Seinfeld, Hulu documentaries — how many hours until one is desperate for something different? Turns out for me, about 14 days. Several times over the past 14 days I ignored a nudge to put my earbuds in my ears and listen to some worship music. I don’t know why. I love music. Yesterday afternoon, I opened my Amazon Music app and somehow spotted Michael W. Smith “best of” album. The first couple of songs were unfamiliar. I searched his albums and there were the two I was most familiar with, his two “Worship” albums, the red one and the green one. 

I sat back as the familiar melodies washed over me and transported me to 2000 and my in-laws’ camp on Lake Seymour in Morgan, Vermont. Buck and I had the use of the camp all that summer, the final summer it would be in our family after three generations had spent lazy, hot summer days together at the lake. 

It was a pivotal year in my life as a Christ follower. It’s a story for another time perhaps, but suffice it to say it had become clear the denomination I had given a quarter century of my life to had become toxic. In retrospect, I had experienced spiritual abuse. Oh, these people were very sincere, believing they were doing God’s work but were sincerely wrong. I was broken. Defeated. Afraid. Without a church family.

It was a serene summer evening at camp, the sun setting across the lake. Buck began playing a Michael W. Smith CD on the camp’s stereo. For context, we had not been exposed to Christian contemporary music considering that during those 2-1/2 decades, our church didn’t believe in instruments in worship - no piano, organ, just voices in 4-part harmony. 

A new friend who was well aware of my struggle gave us the CD. I’m forever grateful. Because as I reclined on the living room rug in front of the huge front window, the sun slowly setting, the room darkening, a beautiful melody began and then quietly, delicately, Michael W. Smith began, “This is the air I breathe … your holy presence living in me … this is my daily bread … your very word spoken to me … and I, I’m desperate for you.” The tears spilled and trickled from the outside corners of my eyes into my hair. My prayer was this song. A sense of peace enveloped me, reassurance of God’s presence, his love, and my desperation for God still so strong. 

Music does that doesn’t it? More images emerged as I continued listening to the album after all these years. I could hear my husband singing along. He could sing. He had been a song leader for years in our a cappella worship services, had a pitch pipe and everything. Buck loved this contemporary Christian music. We listened to them all, Chris Tomlin, Amy Grant, Matt Redman, Phil Wickman, and Philips, Craig & Dean. In later years, he especially enjoyed Lauren Daigle. 

I realized as I listened to this music, Buck’s favorites, that perhaps I had resisted because I knew on some level how much I would miss him again. And, wow, did I ever. He listened and sang along to these songs every day on his way to and from work. Every drive we went on, we sang them together. This music grew his faith. He wasn’t a daily bible reader. Oh, he loved a good study that required breaking out his Vine’s dictionary. He didn’t need and couldn’t sustain “daily devotional” practice. For too many years I secretly held that against him, judged him as not as devout and I was. Shame on me. He had found his path for growth in trusting God.

His faith surpassed mine in the end. I love him for it. It doesn’t escape me that my present circumstances are catalyst for this poignant moment. Feeling sad again, missing him, remembering long ago times in vivid ways, gifts given to me through this present trauma. God was present then and reminding me he is present now. He knew I needed to listen to some worship music.

Thirteen Days

It’s now been 13 days since the mutilation of my right chest. I say “chest” because it wasn’t just the breast, it was skin from margins that extended well around my side and underarm areas. I have no courage yet to see it. I don’t know when I will. But my beautiful, amazing, courageous daughter sees it every day. She uncovers it, exposes it in all its glory and changes the special dressings, thin gauze-like Vaseline-laden sheets. Then she loosely covers the whole area with soft white pads and tapes them in place. The plastic surgeon’s office provided two front Velcro-closure bras that she carefully closes and then we are good for another 24 hours.

Pain management has been challenging, mainly because opioids make me nauseous and I throw up. So I’ve been avoiding the oxycodone. Much to my surprise, the actual surgical site has not been as painful as the graft donor site on my leg. I’ve been waiting for that area to become painful and it happened yesterday. It seemed prudent to try to cut back on the amount of Tylenol and ibuprofen I’ve been taking every six hours for 13 days. So I cut the ibuprofen in half for my noon-time dose yesterday. 

A couple of hours later, the ache under my arm became concerning. It occurred to me that the pain could conceivably get worse over time, will ibuprofen and Tylenol really be enough. There’s a reason they prescribed oxycodone and zofran. It seemed prudent to give it another try. I ate a few Wheat Thins, had a glass of cold ginger ale at hand, swallowed the oxycodone and put the zofran under my tongue to dissolve. Except for feeling a little high for an hour or so, I didn’t get nauseous. Thank you God! Now I know.

Sleeping, inclined on my back, has not been easy. I’m a side sleeper. Impossible right now. Ativan is great for sleep! My PCP ordered 15 pills when I requested some to have for MRIs and anxious times pre-surgery. They are like gold. I use them very sparingly. I wish I had more.

There has been progress. I see it. The last few mornings I have made my own coffee. Poured my own bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats. The more I can do for myself, the less Caroline has to be “on call.” The easier I can make life for her through all of this, the better I feel. She is doing it all - cooking, cleaning, working, shuttling kids to various activities, and taking care of me. Talk about being in a “sandwich generation.” That’s her reality right now. It is temporary. I will heal. I will get my strength back. I will be able to cook again. Clean up the kitchen again. Get my own lunch. Some of these things sooner than others, but the days will go by. We will get back to normal.

In the meantime, I will be gentle with myself, allow my occasional pity parties, let the tears flow. My goodness, who wouldn’t find themselves over-wrought that this is what their life has come to?

Ibuprofen and Tylenol

Just 4 days ago I arrived at the Mass General/Brigham Hospital in Boston, Massachusetts at 7:30 in the morning. By 10 am, I was unconscious on a gurney, with a breathing tube and urinary catheter inserted into my body parts. A surgeon removed my right breast and a generous margin of skin and a plastic surgeon scraped a thin layer of skin from my right thigh and transplanted in to cover the open area where my breast used to be. I was told my breast and tissue was sent in its entirety to pathology. In a couple of weeks, I will know if all the cancer has been removed from my body.

Now I sit with the aftermath. I spent two agonizing nights in the hospital and was sent home late afternoon of the third day. I had been told I would be in the hospital for 5-6 days, so I was reluctant to agree to the plan to boot me out of there. It didn’t take long to warm up to the idea though. My daughter drove to Boston to collect me and I was home by 7:15 that evening.

There is a vacuum dressing covering where my breast was removed. It is attached to a machine 24/7 to allow the area to drain. My right thigh stings with every step, so I hobble like a 100-year old person all bent so as not to stretch out my leg. I haven’t showered of course. My hair is greasy. I feel gross. I can’t take the dilaudid they gave me for pain because it makes me nauseous. I think we have discovered the formula, 4 ibuprofen and 1-1/2 Tylenol every 6 hours. 

It occurs to me that my efforts to rediscover centering prayer, rereading those wonderful books—all the praying and journaling pre-surgery have simply faded away.  The physical bodily onslaught keeps me totally in the present, moment to moment of distraction. Spending 20 minutes of centering prayer doesn’t even occur to me. Getting from my bed, to the toilet, to the couch and catching my breath and waiting for my daughter to bring me a cup of coffee is all that I think about. 

I have discovered that God’s presence boils down to a matter of faith, of trust that God is in this with me. It will become something I will be able to see in hindsight when these awful days are behind me and I can once again draw near to God through contemplative practices.

The Presence of God

Prayer is not a request for God’s favors. True, it has been used to obtain the satisfaction of personal desires. … But genuine prayer is based on recognizing the Origin of all that exists and opening ourselves to it. … In prayer we acknowledge God as the supreme source from which flows all strength, all goodness, all existence, acknowledging that we have our being, life itself from this supreme Power. One can then communicate with this Source, worship it, and ultimately place one’s very center in it. ~Piero Ferrucci, Ineffable Grace (p. 254) as quoted in Centering Prayer and Inner Awakening by Cynthia Bourgeault (p. 3)

In these days counting down to the most challenging physical experience so far in my life, I have felt a desperate need to reconnect with what I’ve known to be true, believed to be true. I love the analogy that God’s presence is like the air we breathe; we are immersed in it yet we are not aware of the fact it is in us and around us all the time. The presence of God penetrates us, is all around us, is always embracing us. Oh how I long to live these present days awake to the presence of God!

So I have been re-reading books about contemplative prayer which is defined as “simply a wordless, trusting opening of self to the divine presence.” (Cynthia Bourgeault, Centering Prayer and Inner Awakening p. 5) The best practice to open oneself to divine presence is Centering Prayer. I was first introduced to this 20 years ago at a church women’s retreat that offered a workshop about Centering Prayer. Over the years, I have lived through seasons of regular practice. The last several years not so much. 

Thomas Keating’s book Open Mind, Open Heart, The Contemplative Dimension of the Gospel has been on my bookshelf for probably 15 years. The pages are dog eared from use. It called my name in my hour of desperation to reconnect with practice that I know will open my eyes again to God’s loving presence in my hour of need. Keating explains that our intention is what matters as we sit quietly for 20 minutes in silence, acknowledging the thoughts that never stop yet resisting the urge to focus on any one thought. 

Keating writes, “…the Spirit heals the wounds of our fragile human nature at a level beyond our psychological perception, just as a person who is anesthetized has no idea of how the operation is going until after it is over.” Now that picture resonates for me right now!

My prayer is that next Wednesday morning God will grant me the ability to let go of the fear I have about the surgery and waking up to my new reality. I have no power or control over what I am forced to go through except to let go, surrender to it and stay present to God’s Presence.

The Inner Room

It’s not always easy to share challenging times with others. I have to be honest, the challenge this devastating diagnosis presents isn’t just physical and emotional. It goes without saying, I think, that it is spiritual as well. 

In the months before my husband began his 5-year leukemia journey, I was already aware that I was “soul sick.” But it really kicked in that day when we heard the doctor say, “It’s leukemia.” And for the past decade, I have wrestled with God. I have wrestled with questions and doubts. A sense of God’s presence eluded me. 

And, of course, nothing can plunge one into spiritual darkness like becoming a widow. That day, June 16, 2020, a sense of emptiness and despair descended on me like I’ve never known. There really is such a thing as a “dark night of the soul” and I endured one for a good decade. A one-on-one bible study earlier this year with a friend turned out to be a catalyst for a breakthrough. It has taken a while, but I am emerging from that spiritual wasteland just in time to face this monster of a storm.

Oddly enough this storm hasn’t caused me to question or doubt. Right now I need God more than ever. I need to truly trust that God is with me in the midst of this storm. It didn’t feel right to cry out for help after all the years I  spent ambivalent about drawing near to God. I mean, I knew the value of prayer, bible reading, and making myself available for inner transformation through silence, solitude, fasting, lectio divina and other spiritual disciplines. I just wasn’t drawn to any of it; didn’t practice any of it.

More than anything now, I seek to truly trust God’s presence with me. To receive the peace that passes understanding that Philippians 4:7 talks about. To keep anxiety at bay. God’s mercy and provision astounds me. He has led me to uplifting Amazon Prime series and to books on my bookshelf that I forgot I even had.

According to Matthew 6:6, Jesus said, “But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.” Thomas Keating writes in Manifesting God that, 

“What happens in the inner room is a process of growing in the deep knowledge of God. God of course does not actually come close; rather God’s actual closeness at all times and in every place begins to penetrate our ordinary consciousness. To live in the presence of God on a continuous basis can become a kind of fourth dimension to our three-dimensional world, forming an invisible but real background to everything that we do or that happens in our lives.”

As the days count down to that moment I am stretched out on a gurney, waiting to be wheeled into a cold operating room, I pray that the image of that invisible, real fourth dimension will comfort me.

The Plastic Surgeon

 It’s New Year’s Eve day 2024, Caroline and I are breezing down I-93 South to Boston and listening to The Women by Kristen Hannah. We decided weeks ago that listening to an audiobook during our frequent drives to and from Boston would be fun. It is. Today’s appointment is with the plastic surgeon who will close up my right chest by grafting skin from one of my thighs after Dr. Fairweather does his portion of the lifesaving surgery I will endure on January 15, 2025.

As we get closer to Faulkner Hospital, it feels familiar. I’ve done this before and it’s not deja vu. As soon as we are parked and walk into the front entrance, I know for sure I’ve been here before. Buck had an appointment here for something related to his treatments 10 years ago. We easily find the office of Dr. Argarwal. The exam room is small, claustrophobic. There is one chair for Caroline and my only choice is to prop myself onto the end of the exam table and crinkling the paper liner in the process. 

I hate that I am here. Caroline is in the right corner of the little room with a view of my back. We are silent. Not much to say as we wait to meet this doctor who will do his best to put me back to some semblance of healing from the radical mastectomy. “Are you doing ok?” Caroline asks. “I’m ok,” I say without turning to face her. But I’m not okay. 

Sitting here in this moment makes the reality of my predicament real, more real than ever up to this point. In my usual struggle to truly tune in to what I’m feeling, I’m not sure at all. Is it fear of the suffering? Is it the thought of living the rest of my life without my right breast? How will I ever be able to look at that empty, scarred space in the mirror? How will I shower and feel hot water wash over that empty space, much less slather body wash over it? I swallow back tears. I tell myself to keep it together. I silently pray I will discover the secret to have what Thomas Keating describes as “permanent and continuous awareness of God’s presence” and my union with God be palpable. It feels so elusive, unattainable. 

After 7 or 8 minutes of waiting comes the knock on the door and Dr. Argarwal greets us. He reviews my history of breast cancer 15 years ago followed by radiation. He repeats his understanding of what Dr. Fairweather will do and what he will do. The wound on my leg from the grafting will take a while to heal. It will have to be covered for a few weeks in order to heal. Exposure to air is not good. Once he has stretched the skin that remains as much as possible he will overlay the layer of skin he takes from my thigh. The area will be covered and sealed and drainage tubes will be inserted. I will be in the hospital for 5 or 6 days and go home with the drainage tubes in tact. “Taking care of them is very straightforward,” he says. My eyes begin to tear up. I manage to keep it together but I know Dr. Argarwal has seen it. He lingers with us waiting for any questions we haven’t asked.

“When will I be able to get fitted for a prosthetic breast and bra?” I ask. He tells me not for at least six months. “We don’t want any pressure on that area until it is completely healed.” I forget to ask if that means I will have to go braless the whole time. I will know soon enough. It’s difficult to imagine no support for my heavy left breast. I try to imagine how I will get back to my life, go out in public, go to church, be with people and feel so lopsided and self conscious. How will I dress to disguise the flatness of my right chest?

“We cannot tell what loss and sorrow and trial are doing. Trust only. The Father comes near to take our hand and lead us on our way today. It shall be a good, a blessed new year!” ~From Streams in the Desert by Mrs. Charles E. Cowman, January 1 devotional.