Beneath the Fig

 "Before Philip called you, when you were under the fig tree, I saw you."

John 1:48

Cancer. 

My husband, 44 years old today, has Cancer.  

My husband, father of my 12 year old and 6 year old sons, has cancer.

Cancer?

We just sold our home.  The home we have lived in for 10 years.  The home where all of our memories as a family of four dwell.  The home near our friends and in our familiar neighborhood.  We just sold our home. 

Our goal was to move to my husband's family property - his happy place - about an hour away and build a dream home.  Nothing big.  In fact, we were going to downsize.  Just something of our own, that we got to design and clear the land for with our own hands.  

We just finished selling and donating all of our furniture, boxing up all of our small stuff, and moving it into storage except the necessities which went with us into a temporary house on the property.  We were about a week or two away from our first meeting with our architect.  

We lived on the property for only a week and a half.  But during that week, we fed the cows every evening, the boys fished every day after school, we ate all our meals outside and watched birds from the front porch.  We rode around in the Ranger feeling the wind blow through our hair.  We visited the tiny community library and reserved a PO Box at the friendly, little yellow post office.  

A week and a half of the good life in God's country. 

Then ... Cancer.  The word landed like a bomb 26 days ago, and the debris of our lives still hangs in the air.  It's like someone picked up each little piece of our life - bedtime routine, sleeping arrangements, work commute, lunch making, chores, grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, reading, making breakfast, cleaning up dinner, feeding the dog - all of the mundane, small tasks that comprise our daily life - and rearranged them in an intentional effort to discombobulate our brains, disrupt our minds, and break our hearts.  

For 26 days, my boys have been passed between aunts, cousins, friends, grandparents, and summer camp.  Anywhere but with us.  For 26 days, it has been a hurricane of vital checks, blood draws, x-rays, ct scans, PET scans, biopsies, follow-ups, consultations, phone calls, schedule changes, and waiting.  It's been a tug-of-war between bad news and good news.  Every moment carries a weight that we have never known before.  Every moment of silence carries a slew of worries and uncertainties that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.  

And every day, the same question lurks silently above me... the question that follows me everywhere I go.  What if?  

I desperately avoid the answer.  So instead I ask Why?  How?  What? Where? I ask the questions that give me action - steps to take.  But I avoid What if.

But sometimes, when I'm alone - usually in my car - I'll let my mind go there.  I'll ask What if?  And when I do, it's like an avalanche that I can't stop or escape from.  The possible answers rain down on me and assault me from every direction until I'm completely overtaken and can't breathe.  I suffocate beneath them until I finally scream Do not hide your face from me, God!  I sob and beat my hands against the steering wheel and scream until my voice is raw.  Do not hide your face from me!  I gasp between each demand until I am completely exhausted and the command becomes a whisper, do not hide your face from me.  Please, I am begging, do not hide your face.  

I know that I am, like Nathanael, beneath my own fig tree.  I am crying out feeling so forgotten, so punished, so frightened, and so despairing.  I sit there heaving as the car idles, emptied out and waiting.  And then I remember - He saw Nathanael under that fig tree.  I saw you, he said. Under the fig tree before Philip called you.  I saw you.  

And then I know.  He sees me.  His face isn't hidden.  It's as clear and shining as the sun on a summer morning.  I see Him in the stranger who prays for me; in the long lost friend who sends a message; in the friend of a friend who extends a helping hand; in the acquaintance who knows someone who can help; in the coworker who picks up the slack; in the sister who steps in as surrogate mom; in the leaf that blows in the wind; in the storm that gathers and dissipates; in the sunrise over the ocean; in the banker who shares her story; in the group of friends who organizes to help; in the moms who make lunches for my son; in the cousin who insists on helping us move; in the seller who prays and worships in her house to prepare it for us to buy.  

How can I feel alone?  How can I feel forgotten?  Who am I that He is mindful of me?  

This is not the first time, I have taken to writing to help myself wade through the mud of grief and trauma.  I wanted to write this for anyone who finds him or herself in my shoes.  For anyone who feels alone beneath their own fig tree wondering if they're forgotten.  I want to be the first to remind them that they are seen.  Never forgotten and never alone.  And, of course, in doing so, I hope to remind myself as well.  I want this blog to be a source of remembering that we don't walk alone and to also be an outlet for gratitude. 

The list above doesn't even scratch the surface of all of the people and actions, for which I am grateful.  With each message, donation, and kind gesture, my words fail me.  I've never known this type of generosity, and I am seeing the face of God every single day.  I want to be better.  I want to do better.  I want to live in a way that makes me feel deserving of so much kindness and generosity.  

I know this won't be the end of our story.  Whatever the future holds.  And whatever it does hold, I pray that it softens me and molds me into whatever is meant for me.  I'm surrendering my own plans.  I pray for gratitude and peace that surpasses my own understanding.  I pray for the opportunity to be a gift to someone else in the way that I have been gifted. And I pray for the wisdom to hear the right message in all of this.   

Cancer.  26 days.  What if?  Where are you?  Have you forsaken me? I saw you.  You are not alone.  I am here.  Look up.  I called you by name.  Be grateful.  Be kind.  Give generously.  Accept graciously.  Lean in.  Lean on.  Surrender.