Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord;
Lord, hear my voice.
Let your ears be attentive
To my cry for mercy.
- Psalm 130:1-2
‘Mortality’ is a disconcerting word. It’s ring of finality produces echoes long after the voice has been silenced.
As a mid-January late afternoon sun begins its steep descent, I write with fear, trepidation…and a strange detachment. Tuesday last, my latest visit to my vocal surgeon brought unexpected and unwelcome news: the vocal cord cancer is back. I had functioned over the last six weeks with hope and philosophical bemusement at the incredible conundrum of having a voice…and being prevented from using it. Yet, I felt the balm of prayers from many, and took comfort in trying to be patient, allowing the healing to work.
Now, the frequent and virulent recurrence of this unnatural substance compels me to wonder: will I ever be truly rid of it? Methinks this is a harbinger, like a rotating beam from a lighthouse lens, warning of rough seas ahead. The virulent white substance extending the length of my right vocal cord…from where did it come? Where does it lurk? Will it reappear in other places?
Six weeks ago, during a clinical visit with my surgeon, a most unpleasant on-the-spot lasering of HGD (high-grade dysplasia…pre-cancerous cells) from my vocal cord actually made possible, to my delight, the return of my singing voice. Two weeks ago, I sang the tenor line with the choir during mass…from the pew, not far away. It seemed crystal. But it was an illusion – a short-lived reprieve from the desert in which I once again stagger.
My surgeon’s concern over this matter was written on his face, gently suggesting that the next visit, in six weeks, may prove to be no better…prompting a rapid return to the operating room, and a more aggressive approach.
You might think, “This sounds more like a desert than an oasis.” In part, you’d be correct. I am not exactly on terra firma, as they say; I am, instead, trudging through doubts, like heavy, parched sand…feeling the searing heat of an unforgiving diagnosis, and wondering, “What now…?”
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On Day #1 of the three-day vocal rest period imposed by my surgeon, I jotted on a white board, showing my wife, “I am terrified.”
Her response – a sustained embrace – spoke louder than any attempt at trite reassurances. It told me that words to describe this helpless feeling also escape loved ones…not just the cancer victim. Please don’t misunderstand, I don’t feel victimized. I feel…strangely resigned to this intruder’s determination to remain with me. Keeping it at bay? Well, that’s another matter.
Saint Augustine is oft mis-quoted as saying, “He who sings well prays twice.” His Latin was misunderstood. In fact, what he actually said was:
“For he who sings praise, does not only praise, but also praises
joyfully; he who sings praise, not only sings, but also loves Him about
whom he is singing. There is a praise-filled public proclamation in the
praise of someone who is confessing or acknowledging God, in the song
of the lover there is love.”
The reason this matters at all is because it’s neither about how – nor how many times – we pray. It’s about LOVE. Show me any choral singer who regularly shows up on a Sunday morning and sings to the best of their God-given ability, and I’ll show you true love of God – faith in action. It pours from them. In its best form, a choir can move other souls toward a mystical connection with God. THAT is why this matters so much to me. Being an integral part of that experience is transformative.
Beloved readers, I have been transformed. Blest beyond all measure, I know that I am a product of many miracles. And I humbly submit that you are, too. As Saint Auggie, himself, once observed, “Miracles are not against the laws of nature; merely against what we know about the laws of nature.”
The Road Less Travelled
This brilliant verse by Robert Frost amplifies the reality of choosing our life’s path. “Somewhere ages and ages hence,” we may be tempted to sigh, wistfully imagining ourselves having taken “the other road.” Perhaps in a parallel universe, we might make such a choice. Either way, we are mortal, and the days of our lives are numbered, knowing neither the hour nor the day.
I chose the path less travelled, with its share of heartache and joy. Now, I continue down this road of lengthening shadows, the sun descending more rapidly than I might prefer. But this road, itself, is an oasis – a chance to marvel at God’s brilliant creation, one step at a time.
Peace. Shalom.