A good friend explained to me that he believes many people in our culture are afflicted with "FOMO"--Fear Of Missing Out--that somehow choices persons make about how they use their time, could leave them missing important and meaningful experiences in their lives. I am intrigued by this term, because I can identify with the fear myself. However, this year when my health took a nosedive and I was diagnosed with cancer, the fear dissipated. In my pre-cancer life, I often felt as if I was one lap behind in life's race and out of breath--relationships, writing, work, exercise--the list went on and on. Do more. Be productive. You'll miss out if you don't. Then cancer. My focus changed. Had to change, or I might not survive. During the months of chemo, I had never experienced such physical weakness, depression palpable. I could do nothing more than lie on the couch some days. I would rebound a little, but then I'd be hit again with another chemo treatment and faced with the difficult side effects. The experience was like living on a spare "energy" budget. I had to say "no" to almost all outside activities. I had little strength for anything but basic living. I felt free to stay at home with no reservations, because that's all I could do. And many days home was a sanctuary where I could rest and write and read and think and pray on the days I felt better. A haven. Margin. I had no fear of missing out on anything, grateful to be alive.
This week I received the good news that I am cancer free--the agressive treatment beating back the agressive disease--assisted by the generous prayers and support of friends, family and colleagues, the grace of God. Each day I feel stronger. People comment that I look more like myself, my face no longer puffy from the steroids, my hair beginning to grow again. I've turned a corner, and can feel my energy returning. Like having more money to spend. When one only has money for the basics, decisions on how to spend and save and give aren't difficult to make. When you have more money, decisions can be harder to make. I face those decisions now with energy. Will I return to my previous pace, or will I be more calculating, free from the fear of missing out? Will I learn the lessons from the chemo months and put them into practice now, not feeling guilty about saying "no"and saying "yes" to taking the margin I so crave to survive this frenetic culture?
I've been fortunate to travel a bit in my life. And when I travel, I can struggle with FOMO. There is so much to see and do. Do I drive myself to fill my schedule until it bursts, or do I take my time and see less and experience the beauty, the sounds, the people, the flavors of the place where I am? The last time I was in Italy with my husband, I got up early, before sunrise, and headed downstairs in the little house we have there. I made a cup of coffee and got out my New Testament and began to read. The comforting words of Jesus filled my mind and I read with no time limit. My husband slept upstairs, and occasionally I'd hear his light snoring. I felt thankful for him and our relationship--that he had made it possible for us to have this home to come to across the ocean. The sun gradually penetrated the early morning darkness, its warmth pouring through the living room window, creating pools of light on the dining table. I can remember thinking, "This is Italy too, not only the trips to Venice and Pisa and Rome." I rose from my chair and opened the front door. I could hear the neighbors beginning to stir, a dog barked in the distance. I breathed in the fresh morning air and gazed out over the bright green field that sits adjacent to our home. I felt almost as if I was standing on a balcony, overlooking a city with all its nooks and crevices of beauty. I had no rush to see it all. I would get to the city's bounty all in good time. There was no fear of missing out. What I had already was beauty and bounty enough.
Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me--watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly." ~Matthew 11:29-30 (The Message)
When I walked into the cabin, my son-in-law asked, "What do you think of the lighting?" As my eyes scanned the vaulted ceiling and honey-colored pine walls, I noted a soft, amber glow from the various lighting in the home. Melded with the natural sunlight pouring from the windows and sky lights, the effect was breathtaking. I exclaimed, "It's gorgeous." My son-in-law explained he had installed specialized light bulbs that re-created the effect of gas lights. As I finished my tour through the mountain home, I feasted on light. All week as I enjoyed a respite in the quietude of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the light drew me in, almost as if it carried melodic sounds. I could look up at the sky lights, perfect rectangles of blue, welcoming daylight. I could stare at the flame in the firelight on a chilly evening and allow its glow to lull me into tranquil calm. And when I walked pathways outdoors, the sun streaming through autumn red and gold leaves, created delicate patterns of shadow and light.
I couldn't quite stop thinking about the concepts of sound and light paired together. I carried my thoughts a bit further and recalled how much I relate to soundtracks when I watch movies. Some of my favorite movies I enjoy because of the soundtrack. Most recently I watched LaLa Land several times, because I loved the soundtrack. One of God's descriptions is The Father of Lights. Perhaps God is like a great composer who spends part of His time creating soundtracks for each individual. In other words, this good Father, only light-filled, devoid of darkness, adores to compose soundtracks fitting to each person on earth. And His soundtracks of people are filled with His light and musicality. Perhaps we are attracted to the light because we hear the soundtrack of who we are.
So many cultural and emotional dynamics block the light--busyness, negative mindsets, fatigue, time pressure--the list could go on and on. But what if we stopped to listen? What if we tuned in to His voice that is filled with brilliant light? We might hear our own soundtrack that He's composed--not only for our enjoyment, but also for the delight of others.
My daughter and son-in-law stood on the front porch of their cabin waving good-bye to my husband and me as we made our way down the mountain and home to the Lowcountry of Charleston. I looked back to get one last glance. I could see sunshine spilling over the cabin, golden and glinting, my daughter's face lifted to the light.
Brilliant, His voice and His face, streaming brightness. ~Psalm 29:3 (The Message)
This week I watched a movie, Collateral Beauty. Will Smith plays a successful advertising executive who is sidelined by grief when his six-year-old daughter dies. He is rendered almost silent by sadness, speaking to few people, separated from his wife, and letting his business go. He begins writing letters to "time," "death" and "love." His colleagues find a creative way for him to receive responses from each of these concepts, and he begins to find his way back from the anger and helplessness. At one point he is challenged to consider the theory of "collateral beauty." In other words, pondering the idea that there could be a possibility of finding beauty in something as ugly as the death of a six-year-old.
Is it possible?
Also this week, a dear friend asked me to pray for him. His task was to minister to parents whose son had committed suicide. My friend texted me that as he went to speak to the couple, his legs were trembling. What would he say? What would I pray? I went to my room and lifted my hands in prayer, bringing my own powerlessness before God. I couldn't imagine the pain of the parents, as well as my friend's own pain as he had known their son. And so I called out for God's love and strength and glory to be felt in the crevices of heartache and confusion and fatigue and stress and unanswered questions. I prayed that His comfort would course through their minds and hearts like a rushing river. I prayed that Jesus' supernatural peace would come like a gentle wind, His presence encircling them, His love a shelter for them to hide in--a place to rest and catch their breaths, a refuge to feel his faithful embrace.
My friend texted back that the time together was filled with tears and God's presence. I texted back, "His love inside the pain." My friend wrote back, "This is hard to hear, but I know it is true."
Years ago, before my husband and I were married and still bridging our relationship between the ocean, we walked along the beach. He was due to go back to Italy the next day. I felt vulnerable, not knowing if I could take one more separation. We walked hand in hand, the rushing waves the only sound between us. Abruptly, Giovanni stopped walking, bent down and picked up a stick and began writing in the sand. I looked down and saw that he'd written in gigantic letters, "I love you." While those words would not keep him physically near me, I could enfold mysef in that truth even an ocean apart.
Perhaps the assurance of God's love for us is a kind of collateral beauty. When nothing makes sense, when horrible things happen, we can fall back on the truth that no thing separates us from His love, that we can conceal ourselves in the folds of His garments, His warm hand on our heads assuring us that we are the beloved, that His love transcends the fragmentation of our lives.
I knew her as Mrs. Wyld (pronounced "wild"). I never knew her first name, but most nine-year-olds don't know the first names of their teachers. Each day she wore matching polyester suits in various shades of earth tones--browns and golds, beige and olive. Her skin was pale and her short, immaculate nails were always painted in clear gloss that sometimes glinted in the sunlight that poured from a line of windows in the fourth-grade classroom when she wrote on the chalkboard. Mrs. Wyld's hair was styled in a bevy of ash-blonde curls that waved to her shoulders. A pair of wireless glasses perched at the end of her nose, and every so often she would push the glasses up with her index finger with a sigh, almost exasperated. She was strict too. She allowed no funny business. She was intent on teaching her students proper grammar and making sure we knew how to do long division. She always gave us ten extra minutes for recess.
Mrs. Wyld, though, had one flaw. And it was a major one. She was a shamer. No one was immune from her sarcastic barbs. I dodged many of her arrows, because I was a pretty good student, so when we had to go to the board and write sentences or "show our work" for a math equation, I usually did well. Frequently, students were the victims of her censorship. "James, how come you got that wrong? We've been working on diagramming sentences for weeks. You're a disappointment to me." Then James would hang his head and slink back to his desk. Mrs. Wyld didn't shame every day. She would sometimes go weeks without any toxic statements. The class would almost get lulled into a false sense of security. But it never failed. She would always strike again.
It was a sunny, blue autumn day that Mrs. Wyld wielded her shame on me--or tried to. It was near the end of the school day, and all us kids were excited about celebrating Halloween. We were to go around the classroom and share what we'd planned to wear for our costumes. I was especially eager to talk about mine. It was my first store-bought costume. Usually my mother helped me concoct something to wear from old items found at the Goodwill, but that year we'd gone to a department store, Benjamin Franklin's, and purchased my Halloween gear. I chose a one-piece black jumpsuit that tied in the back. On the front a skeleton was precisely outined, the bones glittery, silvered. I would glow in the dark. The plastic mask was a smiling skeleton, two holes cut in its bony nose so I could breathe. A thin, elastic band stapled on each side of the mask would go around the back of my head and hold it in place.
I sat near the back of the classroom, so was one of the last students to share. I had been patient, listening to the others' speak, but practically writhed with exitement to talk about my costume, my palms sweaty with aticipation. "And Priscilla, what will you be for Halloween?" I proudly detailed my costume, and then the unexpected occurred. Mrs. Wyld said, "I'm surprised you'd choose to be a skeleton--a person of your size. Class, don't you think that this is a funny choice?" And soon the whole classroom swelled with laughter. I could feel my face fall in disappointment, suddenly aware of the joke, because I was a hefty girl. Overweight. But even in the midst of the embarrassing moment, something greater won out. I thought about how much I loved that costume, knowing that it was a sacrifice for my mother to buy it for me, as even at nine, I was aware that my parents had financial pressure. I wouldn't let Mrs. Wyld's comments keep me from enjoying something I'd chosen, wouldn't let her spoil my pleasure.
Even as adults, we face "shamers." People who throw cold water on ideas or projects or dreams. People who put others down to make themselves feel better. Often shamers are people we love, or people who are not "supposed" to be shamers. Like Mrs. Wyld. Thankfully, God is not a shamer. He is a good father who sees us as His beloved children, for whom He's placed dreams and desires and talents and hopes. When shamers confront us, we can always fall back to our position as the much loved child. We can see what He sees.
That afternoon, after the shaming incident, I remember walking home from school. I could feel the hint of autumn in the October air. Indian summer. The trees had begun to shed, and I walked on trails of gold and red fallen leaves that cushioned my way home. All I could think about was donning my costume, running my hands over the glittering bones, not minding that my skeleton was slightly chubbier than most.
Walking through the parking garage after work last week, I noticed a bumper sticker that brought me comfort. It read: "Love>Fear." Just prior to seeing the sticker, I'd been caught up in my mind with feelings of anxiety. Even though I'd completed the last of my chemotherapy treatments, I felt physically weak and vulnerable. Feeble. The reason I was walking inside the parking garage was because I could no longer walk up more than two flights of stairs before being winded--something I was almost embarrassed to admit. Before cancer, I'd park my car on the eighth floor so I could get the exercise walking up and down the stairs each day. Now, I could only walk downstairs and up only one or two flights. I'd walk those one or two flights, then head to the elevator that took me to whatever floor my car was parked on. As I trudged to my car, I bemoaned my weakness and asked, "What if I never regain strength?" "What if I'm not able to once again find a way to exercise and empower my body?" "What if the cancer comes back and I face chemotherapy again?" "What if I'm not able to work?" "What would I do about health insurance if I couldn't work?" Negative, disempowering thoughts curled out of my mind. Then the bumper sticker interrupted the noxious thinking. A mercy from God, no doubt.
I began to remind myself of how deeply I am loved by God. He had gotten me through the treatments and provided support from countless people who love me. Countless prayers from His army of believers. He'd supplied many good days when I felt well and was able to work productively. I was still consistent with walking, albeit a slower pace. My husband had gone to every medical appointment with me and cooked me boundless healthy food, washed the floors and told me every day that I would make it. My daughters stood by me like rocks of Gibraltar. My sisters and family in Italy regularly checked in with me. Even colleagues surrounded me with good wishes and filling in for me when I couldn't make it to work. Friends sent me texts, emails and letters, brought me flowers--lifelines of encouragement. Yes, love truly overwhelmed fear in my life. When I got to my car I remembered God's supply over this year--His incessant forbearance toward me.
God reminded me, too, of another way to slay fear in my life--a memory I cherish. When my girls were little, they listened to cassette tapes and learned numerous songs. One of our favorites was sung by "Charity Churchmouse." We often sang the song at night as I tucked them into bed. The lyrics are:
I cast all my care upon you.
I lay all of my burdens down at your feet.
And anytime I don't know what to do.
I cast all my care upon you.
We would sing this simple tune over and over until drowsiness and peace began to work its way over our hearts.
I realized I could still sing this song now. I imagined tying all my fears, worries and anxieties to balloons and watching them sail away, no longer resting on my shoulders. I would cast my cares to the wind and let Jesus take them. I, in return for the burdens and cares of my life, would receive His supernatural peace, His love and presence that is greater than all my fears and worries and doubt.
When I'm feeble and overwhelmed by life,
Guide me into your glory where I am safe and sheltered.
Lord, you are a paradise of protection to me.
You lift me high above the fray. ~Psalm 61:2-3 (The Passion Translation)