February 28, 2015 — Dear Cancer, I Hate You

“Dear cancer, I hate you.” Those words that begin the personal essay are jarring. They’re written by a young woman named Jenna Rose Lowthert, in an essay published in our local newspaper, in memory of her mother, Gina.

Gina died of cancer.

Yes, cancer is something we come to hate. But — as in the odd occurrence of the word “dear” in this letter’s opening — there’s also a macabre intimacy to it.

We live with cancer — both those of us who are actively being treated, and those of us in remission. We hate it, yes. But it’s also become part of our lives.

It’s part of us. A symptom of our fallen condition on this earth, perhaps. A dark mystery. The intimate companion we never invited into our lives.

Here’s some of what Jenna wrote (click on the link above to read the whole article):

Dear cancer,

I hate you.

You’re terrible.

You are the true definition of a heart breaker.

You single-handedly ruined my entire life in the matter of 10 short months.

You took away my best friend, the only person in this world who will ever love me unconditionally.

You took away my mother — and you took her in the most horrible way possible. You stopped her heart from beating at the young age of 48....

Yet, as Jenna has evidently discovered, cancer is also a teacher, although a harsh one:

The same thing that drives me to live after this loss is the same reason I hate you.

But cancer, you did not win the day my mother gained her angel wings.

You did not beat her. She beat you, as she left this world with her love, her hope, her strength, her bravery and her dignity, surrounded by the people who she loved the most.

You may have destroyed a lot, but you have, in turn, taught me lessons I never thought I would learn by age 25. You showed me just how short and precious life truly is. You showed me that every day is a gift and that I should never take anything or anybody for granted. You have forced me to recognize a strength within myself that I never knew existed.

Cancer, although I hate you with all of my heart, you have brought out the woman in me that my mother always hoped I would be....

And that is why you did not win.

Cancer is our teacher, but it is also our adversary. In contending with this challenge, we grow stronger. And better.

Who’s to say if this is the best way for us to grow? Who’s to say if God could have accomplished the same purpose in some way that’s easier, less painful?

From our limited vantage-point, we can never say for sure. But we can strive to live with cancer. We can strive to do it with courage, as Jenna and her mother have.

December 12, 2011 – Blue Christmas

It’s been a while since I’ve posted, I know.  I had the fall stewardship campaign at the church, then Thanksgiving, then the start of Advent – all the while dealing with the sandwich-generation issues that are my life right now: young-adult kids coming and going, and caring for my mother who lives nearby and has Alzheimer’s.  Life has been busy (and, thankfully, healthy)!

Yesterday, for the first time, we offered a Blue Christmas worship service at the church.  It’s something I’d hoped to explore in previous years, but it took the enthusiasm of our church’s Associate, Linda, to get it organized.

What a blessing!  Attendance was not large (nor did we expect it to be).  We’d promoted the service as a focused pastoral-care outreach to a select group of people: those who have experienced recent losses, and who feel a bit left out amidst the traditional pre-Christmas merrymaking.  For those who participated, it was a rich and meaningful experience – due, in large part, to Linda, who put together a carefully-crafted order of worship that emphasized the presence of God and the quiet beauty of the Advent season.

Judging from what I know of those who were present, most of the losses were due to bereavement, although we were careful to speak to losses of all kinds, including the loss of jobs and income in this difficult economy.

Cancer, of course, brings its own losses.  Even those who are fortunate enough to go into remission have lost the sense they once had of being healthy.  We’re reminded of that every time we fill in a medical-history form.  Always there is the reality of the cancer, and the thought in the back of our minds that someday it could come back.

Towards the end of the service, everyone was invited to come forward and light an individual votive candle in a blue-glass holder, in memory of their loved one or in recognition of whatever other loss they may have experienced.  The people did that by means of a white, hand-held candle they passed from person to person.  Each one used it, in turn, to light his or her own candle, then passed it to the next person, and so on.

It struck me, at the time, how powerful was the symbolism of that simple act.  Here was a group of people, each of them bearing a heavy burden of grief.  The road each one is walking is, by its nature, profoundly alienating.   Yet, each one passed the light to a fellow believer, all the same.

We receive ministry from others, yet Christ also calls us to offer it.  Even in a season of personal darkness, we can very often still find a little light to offer to another.  This is what life in Christian community, at its finest, is all about.

There are some who maintain that one of the surest ways up and out of the pit of depression is to try to do something for others, however difficult it may be to get started on that.  I think there’s a lot to what they say.

The night before the Blue Christmas service – knowing how few are the liturgical and musical resources to use in planning such a service — I felt led to write the text of a hymn.  It was too late to get it into the bulletin for this year, but maybe we’ll use it next year.

The hymn is set to the hauntingly beautiful tune of The Coventry Carol - a familiar tune to many, but not one we’re used to singing as a congregation.  Not many people who enjoy listening to the Coventry Carol on their Christmas CDs are aware of this, but its lovely melody is desperately sad. It’s the keening lament of the women of Bethlehem, after their male babies and toddlers have been slaughtered by the soldiers of King Herod.  (According to Matthew 2:16-18, Herod was bent on murdering the young Jesus, whom he perceived as a threat to his rule.)  “Lullay, lullay, thou little tiny child” is a lullaby, to be sure, but it’s the last lullaby sung by a grieving mother to the dead child in her arms.  Pretty grim stuff, but also very powerful in a raw, emotional way.

(Scroll down for the hymn text...)

Comfort Your People, Lord

A Hymn for Blue Christmas Worship Services
Text by Carlos E. Wilton
Tune: “The Coventry Carol”

O Lord, we bring to you, this day,

Hearts that are raw with pain:

For sorrow has companioned us,

And in our lives does reign.

You promise to make all things new:

Comfort your people, Lord.

Would that we could turn back the clock

And for one precious hour

Reach out, clasp hands, and touch again

Love’s fragile, with’ring flower!

You cherish all times in your hands:

Comfort your people, Lord.

All through our lives we’ve trusted you

To be most fair and kind:

Though, in the dark night of the soul,

Anger enthralls our minds.

For freedom you have set us free:

Comfort your people, Lord.

We have not always trusted that

Fairness has been your way.

Too soon it’s seemed to watch our dreams

Float up and fly away.

For good, all things together work:

Comfort your people, Lord.

My soul, why are you so downcast:

Caught up in grief’s malaise?

We trust the day will soon arrive

When we will sing God’s praise!

Not Yuletide mirth, but Easter joy:

We ask this gift, O Lord.

Copyright © 2011, by Carlos E. Wilton.  All rights reserved.  Permission is given for congregations to reproduce the text of this hymn in worship bulletins, as long as the copyright information is included.