Matthew 7
Following Jesus is harder than I thought it would be. I am glad I found Him again. I would choose this life again. Still, I sometimes wish choosing it came with a little less fear, or at least some advance notice of what I would be asked to carry.
Before cancer, I could go about my day without giving my body much thought. How casually I lived inside it. I could be tired and assume I needed sleep. Feel an ache and let it remain an ache. Now I notice something unusual and my mind immediately wants an explanation, preferably a reassuring one, preferably right now. There are appointments, scans, labs, and the peculiar business of trying to live normally while waiting for someone to tell me whether everything is okay.
I miss being able to take okay for granted.
My life was easier then, although I would hesitate to call it fuller. I worked, made money, spent money, felt briefly pleased with what I had bought, then returned to work to finance the next small improvement in my mood. I enjoyed myself. I also felt empty in a way I rarely stopped long enough to examine. There was always something else to want, which was convenient. Wanting kept me occupied.
When Jesus speaks about the wide road, I think about how little resistance there can be in a life that mostly asks me what I would like next.
It is unsettling to think that I could be comfortable on a road I would not, if I understood its destination, choose to keep walking. But I was comfortable. I do not need to rewrite my past as entirely miserable to explain why I am grateful God called me out of it.
I like where I am with Him now. That is the truth I keep returning to, even when another truth is asking to be acknowledged: this has been hard for me.
I used to hear that verse and think mostly about the choices a Christian has to make. What to turn away from, what to surrender, what obedience might cost. Now I think about the quieter difficulty of trusting God through a day I cannot get comfortable in. Knowing He is good while wishing, quite desperately, that things felt better. Trying to loosen my grip on a future I would very much like to inspect before agreeing to it.
Cancer and treatment have left me with changes I am still learning how to live with. My lungs were affected by chemotherapy. The steroids helped with what needed treating and brought difficulties of their own. I gained so much weight. Movement became harder. There are stretch marks all over my body, and sometimes I look in the mirror longer than I mean to, searching for something familiar.
I know what this body has endured. I wish that knowledge made it easier to look at.
At the mall, I see clothes I would have loved to wear and find myself grieving in the middle of an otherwise ordinary afternoon. It feels almost embarrassing to admit. After everything, am I really upset about a dress? But I remember the ease of choosing one. I remember getting ready without negotiating with my reflection, putting on makeup because it was enjoyable, feeling pretty without needing to persuade myself.
My husband invites me to a work party or dinner, and I want to go. Then I begin wondering who will be there. Whether they remember me before all of this. Whether they will notice, comment, or quietly compare. I have no way of knowing what anyone will think, but apparently that has never stopped my mind from preparing an entire evening of possible humiliation.
Sometimes I stay home. Sometimes comfort is what I need. Other times, I know I have let fear decide, and I feel sad because I wanted to be there. People remind me that beauty is on the inside. I understand. I appreciate that they are trying to help. But I wish there were room to say that I miss feeling beautiful on the outside, too. I miss feeling at ease when someone looks at me. Surely I can value the person I am becoming and still mourn how unfamiliar I feel to myself.
This is the part I struggle to explain, even to God. I am grateful, and I am hurting. On some days, gratitude comes easily; I can see His goodness everywhere. On others, I am frightened by a symptom or discouraged by my reflection, and everything becomes harder to reach. His goodness has not changed. My ability to rest in it seems to change considerably.
I wonder whether I have been expecting faith to spare me the experience of being human.
Being a Christian is hard sometimes. There is pain in surrendering what I still want to hold. There is effort in trusting when I have questions that remain unanswered. I believe God has a purpose for my life, but I am living through the days before I understand much of it, and those days can be exhausting. Believing the journey is worthwhile does not make every step feel bearable.
So I distract myself. I find something to do, something to watch, something that will occupy the part of my mind where the hurt waits. There is relief in that, and sometimes I need it. But sometimes I am also postponing a conversation because I know that, once I begin, I may cry.
I thought perhaps I was being dishonest with God. Now I wonder whether I have simply been quiet about the things I most need to tell Him.
What would I say if I stopped trying to sound grateful enough first? That I miss my old body. That I am scared. That I want to go to the dinner. That I am tired of wondering whether every unfamiliar sensation means something. That I love Him and sometimes find it difficult to trust Him with the very life I am thankful He has preserved.
He already knows. Still, there is something vulnerable about letting myself say it.
Later in the same chapter, Jesus describes the house built on rock. The rain comes, the floods rise, and the wind beats against it. I find myself paying attention to that part now. A good foundation, and still such weather.
Perhaps I have been looking for proof of faith in how little I am shaken, when I could be learning to turn toward Him while I am. Perhaps prayer can be less polished than I have allowed it to be. I could tell Him that today was difficult and leave it there for a while, without rushing to explain what the difficulty has taught me.
I do not want my old life back. I want some of its ease, and I am learning to be honest about the difference. The wide road gave me plenty of ways to occupy myself. Here, I am beginning to understand what it means to be loved beyond what I can earn, buy, or make of myself. I would not trade that away, even on the days when I am struggling.
But I would like to stop making my gratitude responsible for silencing my grief.
Lord, I am glad You brought me here. I believe this road leads to life. Some days I am afraid, and some days I miss who I was so much that I do not know what to do with myself. I want to keep following You. Please help me take the next step.
I would choose this road again. I hope I can learn to tell Him how much it hurts without feeling that I have taken back my yes.