She stared at the phone. The call would come soon. Surely, this must be a bad dream. No, a nightmare. A couple of weeks ago during a routine annual exam, her doctor found a lump on her left breast. Even though her recent mammogram was negative, the doctor remained suspicious. She followed her instincts and ordered an ultrasound “just to be sure.” The ultrasound led to a biopsy and more waiting. Through all the waiting, she spent hours reading books and researching breast cancer symptoms on the Internet, looking for evidence to prove her doctor wrong. Or maybe gaining knowledge was her way of mastering a situation that was proving itself beyond her control. The phone finally rang, and everyone’s suspicions were confirmed. “You have cancer,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
It was surreal. She had no family history of cancer, only healthy parents and grandparents who lived long and full lives. Besides, cancer happened to other people. Not to me. Over the next few days, she walked around in a daze from phone call to phone call, appointment to appointment, and one test after another. She sifted through a mountain of information trying to make sense of her treatment options. She felt like she was drinking water from a fire hose. Finally the cloud began to lift, and things started to make sense. The tumor appeared very small, likely early stage. She would have a lumpectomy followed by a few weeks of radiation, and then she could put this all behind her and get on with her life.
After scheduling the surgery, she remembered the prayer chapel in her church where people would go for prayer during services. She always thought prayer was something pastors did from the front of the church or something you did silently and privately before God. Every Sunday, she would watch people go in the chapel and always thought they must be really desperate. And then it dawned on her; she was really desperate. Impulsively, she took her family into the chapel and asked the prayer ministers to pray for her before the surgery. She was not prepared for what happened. They circled around her, and for the first time in her life, she experienced God. When they touched her, He touched her. When they anointed her head with oil, He anointed her head with oil. When they wiped away her tears, He wiped away her tears. She never had felt so close to the heart and mind of Christ. She never had felt so loved. They prayed for complete and total healing and restoration. And she believed.
She went into surgery filled with confidence. She felt God’s presence with her, and she felt every prayer. But things didn’t turn out the way everyone expected. It wasn’t one lump; it was two. The cancer wasn’t in the early stages. It had already spread to her lymph nodes. It wouldn’t mean just a few weeks of radiation. It would mean several months of chemotherapy. It would mean side effects, like fatigue, nausea, numb hands and feet, and general joint and body aches. And it would mean baldness. Months and months of baldness.
She was suddenly thrust from a world of wellness into a world of the sick. She desperately wanted to live a “normal life”—to continue to work, take care of her family, and live as she had lived before. That would be difficult with so much of the day spent in hospital waiting rooms, labs, and chemo chairs. And it would be difficult without hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes. In the midst of this life-threatening crisis, losing her hair was surprisingly traumatic. She could receive treatment and keep her diagnosis private. But a bald head would announce her cancer to the world.
In an effort to maintain control, she bought a wig and had her long hair cut to match. When her hair began falling out seventeen days after the first treatment, her husband shaved it off. Then he said, “Wow, you have a beautifully shaped head. Let’s go out for dinner.” And they did. She was so grateful for a family that didn’t treat her like a “sick person.” And she avoided those who pitied her and acted as if she were dying.
As the months passed, something profound happened to her in this “dark bald place.” God continued what He started in the prayer chapel. This confident wife, mom, and businesswoman who had always been in control, had lost control. She reached the end of herself and all her human abilities. All her degrees, accomplishments, experience, and intelligence would not be able to save her. Only God could save her. Naked and bald, she dropped to her knees and cried out to Him. She came face-to-face with her own brokenness, her mortality, her uncertain future, and her desperate need for a Savior. Everything she knew about God after a lifetime of going to church dropped eighteen inches from her head into her heart. She came to know God. All His promises and His love for her became real and personal. Jesus became more than Someone she thought about on Sunday mornings at church. He became Lord of her life.
On the last day of treatment, she realized the doctors could not give her the words she longed to hear. You are healed. It wasn’t like pneumonia where she could take a prescribed course of antibiotics and be done with it. Doctors didn’t know her prognosis. They could only give her statistics and chances of recurrences and monitor her vigilantly in the months and years ahead until her tests convinced them she was healed. At that point, she realized it was by His grace that she woke up every day before cancer, and it would be by His grace that she woke up every day after. She could live in fear from checkup to checkup, or she could live by faith in His perfect love. She chose faith. She chose God. Yes, she wanted His blessing. She wanted a long and full life. But she wanted Him more. He could take her home tomorrow, and He was all she needed. He was enough.
Fifteen years have passed, and she is healed and whole. She has devoted her life to ministering to others walking through a dark valley, to caring for the sick and hurting. She points them all to Jehovah-Rapha, the God who heals. Because whatever happens, He is enough.