Saying Yes to No

You may remember Breathe Festival from previous posts. It's about time I tell you what happened this past summer at Breathe.

I've liked creating stories since I was a kid. And in high school, I really got into writing fiction. Throughout my undergrad studies, writing was my foremost hobby. By early 2014, I had finished two novels, and a number of short stories, all unpublished. And leading up to Breathe, I was planning out a new story, one that I felt (and still feel) had the greatest potential to take me from being a hobby writer to published one.

But here's the thing: I spent lots of time thinking about writing. I would think about it at work, during class, during sermons, on car trips, and while falling asleep at night. I would meticulously plan what I was going to write the next time I sat down at the computer. When I saw people who were out of work or had otherwise lost their sense of meaning in life, I told myself that that would never be me, because I would always have my stories, my personal writing projects to give me meaning. Even if society collapsed into chaos, I would still be able to write, so I would still be okay.

When I went to Breathe this summer, they had a breakout session about self-denial, which sounded interesting. I went to it, and the guy recommended each of us take some time during the weekend to ask God "What's wrong with me?" I did that during worship after the following sermon, and I tried to be open to any answer that He might give. In doing so, I had such a visceral reaction against the mere possibility that God might be telling that I needed to give up writing, that this finally registered as a problem.

If God truly is King of my life, then if he says no to something, I need to as well. If I never write another piece of fiction in my life, if I never write another word, that has to be okay.

And I knew in that moment was that this was not okay. Not by a long shot.

So I had a choice: I either had to turn my back on God, or say yes to God's no.

Immediately, I knew I had made the right choice. As worship continued around me, I felt that - for the first time in my life - there were no idols between myself and God. I was able to worship with full abandon, in Spirit and in Truth. It was incredibly liberating.

Those of you who write for a living are probably going to have a hard time understanding this. (You probably also wouldn't believe me if I told you that I actually enjoy writing, but I do). But this isn't about writing. That was my idol, but it likely isn't yours. This was something that I was hoping in, counting on, before and above God.

And so I gave up writing fiction. An indefinite fast. And when you fast from something indefinitely, there's not really any fun in fantasizing about it anymore. So the obsessive patterns of thought have been breaking down. And with this idol out of the way, I've been growing. (More on that next time).

I sincerely believe that God will call me out of my fast someday, to use the talents He has put in me; but whenever, if ever, that may happen, I'm learning to be content.

Timing

Five years ago today, a doctor phoned my parents’ house to tell them that the results of the MRI were in: I had a “mass” in my spinal cord. And given how rapidly my symptoms had developed, it seemed to be growing very quickly.

It was spring of my senior year. Five months prior, I had started dating Alexandra, my first and only girlfriend. I was cast as Nathan Detroit in my high school’s production of Guys and Dolls. I was taking two Advanced Placement classes. Prom and Senior Trip and Graduation were two months away.

And there was something growing in my neck. I had numbness on my abdomen, pins-and-needles sensations on various parts of my body, and my right leg was weak enough that I was starting to limp noticeably.

The day after the phone call, the doctor gave me some of the best news I could have hoped for: it wasn’t cancer. It was a cluster of malformed blood vessels called a cavernous angioma. The blood vessels had hemorrhaged, and the pooling blood put pressure on my spinal cord, which is why the symptoms had appeared so quickly. Given that 85% of the diameter of my spinal cord was the angioma, the surgeon was a little surprised I was even capable of walking.

I kept a journal during that time. Here’s an excerpt:

The question “Why me?” is not one that I’ve felt like asking much up to this point, March thirtieth. More what I have been asking is “Why now?” though not so explicitly. Of all the times to need a surgery, spring of senior year is one of the most inconvenient.

I had two options. I could have the surgery as soon as possible. But the projected recovery time overlapped with just about everything I was looking forward to. And the most likely thing I would miss was the musical, which was the most important to me.

Alternatively, I could wait until summer to have it removed. I would probably be able to do all the things I was looking forward to. But there was also a risk that between then and the surgery, the angioma would bleed again, leaving behind more permanent damage.

I didn’t want to sacrifice all the things I was looking forward to about my senior year, but when I laid it all out, there really was only one option that made any sense.

But weighing the potential risks, and how lasting their consequences against the temporary satisfaction of today’s events, the choice becomes clear; indeed, putting it on paper, it is not possible to spin it any other way. But yet when it finally comes to turning the theory into reality, letting eternity have direct and immediate consequence on the present, things become significantly more difficult. And yet it is the clearest, best, most sensible option.

And I believe that God has granted a strength in me I didn’t know I had, for even taking time to reflect on what I’ll miss out on, I did not even cry as I expected I would. He truly is faithful to give me the strength that I need now. I don’t think I could bear paralysis, but I trust that if that’s His plan, He’ll uphold me. He has daily given me what I need even when unable to avoid staring the truth in its now-unpleasant face. He will continue to do so. May He grace those around me with it as well.

I chose to have the surgery right away. Leading up to it, the surgeon told me on multiple occasions that there was a small chance, very small, that I could be paralyzed from the chest down. I remember waking up from the anesthesia – though the memory is terribly hazy – and moving my left foot (the one relatively unaffected by the angioma) and saying “Hey, I’m not paralyzed!” Despite the fog created by the sedatives, you can imagine my excitement. The nurse said that was good and asked if I was able to move the other foot. It was much weaker, so I was little reluctant, but I moved it.

They kept me on a regimen of steroids to try and mitigate the swelling. It was weeks before I could sleep more than a few hours each night. That, coupled with not attending school, meant incredible loneliness. I wrestled through depression for a short time. I remember lying on the bed in the spare bedroom, staring at the ceiling, thinking literally about nothing. I was uncomfortable, but I didn’t move, because the past month had taught me that the discomfort was purely due to the angioma and moving only helped for a few seconds; it simply wasn’t worth the effort.

But I went to physical therapy and over the next two months I was blessed with the opportunity to resume my part in the musical, score as good as I’d hoped on the AP tests, go on my senior trip, and attend prom and graduation. In short, I didn’t miss any of the things I thought that I would by choosing not to wait until summer for the surgery.

Now I’m twenty-three, married, in graduate school. Looking back – both at what I wrote and what I recall – I don’t think I fully appreciated at the time just how crazy that experience was. And while it might seem like my recovery was little short of a miracle, what really blows me away about that time of my life was my attitude throughout the experience. Yes, there were moments when I felt alone – I remember one experience in particular when I was so absorbed in my own fear that I let go of all trust in God – but on the whole, my reactions are hard for even me to believe. Before I found out that the mass was an angioma and not cancer, I wrote this:

But thank the Lord He’s written my story in advance. I know that at the end of this, I’ll be closer to Him, I’ll be a better man. What more do I need to know? What more could I ask for? My Father who loves me is in control. Praise His holy name.

I greatly doubt I would react that way now.

There are three things that made that reaction possible. First and foremost is grace: I am convinced that God was bolstering me with the strength I needed every day, like manna. The second is youth: I think I was still young enough then to be just a little foolhardy about the whole thing. And the last is a strong belief in the sovereignty of God impressed upon be during the preceding six years at Riverside Bible Church.

Prior to attending Riverside, I lacked assurance. And since graduating from High School, I’ve gained a more healthy respect for my own mortality. But between gaining that assurance and that respect for mortality was a window of time when something crazy could happen, and I could react how I did. Perhaps God’s timing wasn’t so inconvenient; perhaps it was good after all.

Come to think of it, there were so many things that got me through. When I was lying awake night after night in the hospital, what got me through was eager anticipation for day to arrive so I could see Alexandra. And when I was lying around day after day at hon, it was homework for AP classes that forced me to engage (“strength must be won by strength”). And when I didn’t want to go to physical therapy, I remember my mom giving me a much-needed verbal kick in the pants, asking if I really wanted to get back on stage for my final show. And when I didn’t want to follow up on physical therapy at home, the desire to go to prom and graduation and senior trip helped to motivate me. If I had waited until summer, what would have pushed me forward?

And you remember that the surgeon was surprised that I could walk given the state of my spine? Had I not just finished my fifth season of cross country and set the school record for the 5K, my legs might have been too weak to walk at all.

So it wasn’t just good timing; it was perfect timing.