#5 My Exodus: the journey into the unknown
My diagnosis felt like an exodus from a world of "safety and certainty." Suddenly I was out in the unknown, thrust into a place of in-between.
The results of the blood test were clear, I have cancer - CLL. I am no longer the Kylie I was yesterday. I am now Kylie with cancer. But I haven't fully landed in this new reality yet. I'm processing it and am consumed by a wide range of rolling emotions. I'm trying to make sense of something that is too big for me to make sense of. I'm trying to find a solution, where there is no solution. I'm trying to map out a route, find sign posts, make sense of trail markers I find on google - but nothing is helping. I'm on a journey that I haven't packed for - I feel ill prepared.
I don't really know what to do or where to go, so routine helps. Two days after diagnosis day, I head to church with my family. We go because our kids want to. They need to know things are still normal, they need a compass that still points north. My preference would probably have been to turtle away, but I want to create an environment of calm for my kids, so we go.
Our church is a small, rural Christian community. Over half the population are retired. There's a handful of younger families who have amazing energy and passion. Our worship team are incredible. They go after heaven every Sunday morning and God is always ready to respond.
Finding myself in unknown territory, unsure and reeling, I turn to what I know, what is safe and what has proven true for me in the past. In worship, I turn my heart to Jesus, trusting him to respond to my cry. I know well enough not to ask why?.. why me?... why this?... why now? - there is no answers there. Instead, I have learnt in troubling times to just ask to be held, to be loved, to be given the strength to take the next step forward.
So this Sunday morning I relinquished the need for answers and raised my hands and my heart, instead seeking tender embrace. Worship was like lightening for me. I desperately reached up and heaven extended toward me. That's how lightening works - heaven and earth reach for each other and connect with an awe-inspiring flash.
Revelation struck me as we sung a song "Egypt": I visualised the Israelites fleeing Egypt, taken through the Red Sea and I felt their experience tangibly. As God held back the waters for their release, as they walked in that unknown in-between space - between the old and the new world, I could feel their terror, their trepidation, and their courage. On both sides of them high raging waters frothed, behind them an army chased, and they had nothing to prepare them for the journey ahead. Everywhere they look, everywhere I look, uncertainty, turmoil, maelstrom.
Can you imagine looking up at the raging waters on either side of you, the impending threat of death all around?
This cancer journey, this exodus is an overwhelming event, a surging mix of emotional, physical and spiritual tensions.
In that moment of surrender, God showed me that the feelings I was experiencing - the turmoil, the trepidation, the raging, the fear of being swamped and consumed - they were all natural, and healthy, and okay.
Despite the physical and emotional reality I was facing, He promised to cover me with his super-natural hand of protection and care. Just like He did when the Israelites walked on dry land. Their journey took remarkable courage. And I was filled with that courage too.
It was then that I knew, that the days, months and years ahead of living with CLL would take on both a physical and spiritual form. My physical and emotional reality could be tumultuous, challenging and terrifying AND my spirit could be at peace, secure that I am held by a hand greater than my own. It isn't a one or the other reality. My physical reality doesn't have to discount the spiritual one; or vise versa. God assured me He can live with both.
"You have torn apart the sea, you have led me through the deep - Hallelujah"
I'm thankful for that very tangible picture, because as the days drew out after diagnosis, even though physically I'm still well, emotionally and spiritually there have been hard days. And in my moments of despair, I've been able to return to that gift - my exodus encouragement. When I fall into the trap of trying to find landmarks, trying to find solutions, trying to return to my before, I remember that even though I'm in deep water, I am also held; I am loved. And this gives me hope and courage.
Courage, Love and Legacy
Grace in the grappling moments is important for the journey we're on. With CLL, we're told, it's the best kind of cancer to have, to be thankful, we're blessed. This is not how I feel. I don't want to be a CLL patient. I don't want to be on a cancer journey for the rest of my life. I don't want to wonder and worry if I'll be at my children’s graduation, wedding, birth of their babies.... Feeling angry, upset, sad, grief, rage, confusion, frustration, fear - these are all natural responses to the threat we are facing. We have left a land we know and are heading into the unknown, a place full of uncertainty.
For me, I find my certainty in my faith. This is where I receive courage, love and a sense of legacy. God plants hope in my spirit, despite how I'm feeling. He encircles me and empowers me and gives me grace to walk through the turmoil raging in and around me.
Like walking down a Burma trail, blindfolded, it helps to have a lifeline to hold tightly to, that will guide and offer you comfort. In the rawness of these days, take some quiet time to discover what will help you on your journey into the unknown.