The heart has its reason which reason does not know.
- Blaise Pascal
When I was a boy – barely eight years old – I first encountered Him. He awakened me with whispers as I lay sleeping on a fallen log in my father’s forest. Certain that it was my father playing a joke, I bolted upright, peering all around. Silence.
Suddenly, I heard it again – this time, my name being called…a long, rasping whisper, and the Voice called out my name. Was I still asleep? Was I dreaming?
When one permits a lifetime of the mystical to color one’s perceptions about this world, it can become disheartening, as it was for Samuel. Indeed, on many occasions, I have found myself saying, “Speak Lord, your servant is listening”…only to realize that such is not always His way. What I wanted to say is, “Lord, heal me…your servant wants to sing again!”
Faith…that which compels us to believe the unseen is real, the unrealized is attainable. As Saint Augustine said, “The reward of faith is to see what we believe.” But as a dear friend recently reminded me, “Yes, we should pray for healing, always mindful that sometimes, His answer is ‘No.’” Hmm…it got me thinking.
“Cutting” to the Chase
Met on Friday last with my surgeon. Scoping the vocal cords proved that the milky substance remains on the right cord, and he noted that it had crept closer to the esophagus. Translation: biopsy time. Explaining that we needed a series of good, consistent readings from several parts of the vile intruder, Doc’s nurse proceeded waterboarding me with a solution of lidocaine and what I’d swear was industrial lubricant. (Don’t ask how I know that.)
Deeming that my ravaged throat was sufficiently deadened to have a look around, the nurse held the light scope while Doc proceeded with three separate plunges, using a tiny clamp to grab and tear off samples for biopsy. Upon withdrawing the tools, he looked at the images again, shook his head and said, “One more time.”
Sensing thin ice with my patience, no doubt, Doc glanced at me – reactive tears in my eyes – and asked, “How are you doing? Would you like a little more lidocaine?”
“Sounds delish,” I deadpanned.
The attending nurse obliged my addiction to the industrial lubricant, injected more, and Doc resumed the torture…until every last piece was removed. After apportioning for biopsies, Doc showed me a final photo of the area, red and irritated at the surface. Neither plaque nor dysplasia – visible to the naked eye – remained. It looked like raw meat. Perfect.
“So, Carl...what’s the upshot of this?” you may ask.
As Doc paused, I already knew where he was going…
“Carl, we’re at the point where we need as much useful data as possible. That’s why I wanted to take ALL of it today. Because without data, we’re shooting in the dark. If we see enough cancer markers consistently across several biopsy samples, then we know – the next step is radiation…and that will change your voice.”
Yeah…so there it is.
The Heart of the Matter
Still nursing this sore throat, through another imposed three days of vocal rest, I’ve had time to think, pondering life on this “tiny blue dot,” as the astronomer, Carl Sagan, referred to our planet. At the tender age of seventy – going on seventeen – I reflect on what any of this means or matters. In the scope of God’s plan, I am just one person with a finite shelf-life, and more road visible in my rear-view mirror than through the windshield. So, let’s get real…
I’ve followed this process of removing the monster from my vocal cords for eight months now…eight months, and it feels like eighty. I naively thought that when I began this series, I might be paving a path for anyone else that comes after. And after trying my very best to be analytical and optimistic, I find myself confronted by Blaise Pascal’s observation: “The heart has its reason, which reason does not know.”
I cannot reason away what feels like a deliberate slap upside my head by our God. It feels unfair and subjective. Then again, would I wish this upon anybody? Hell, no!
I am left with a choice: to see the proverbial glass as half-full, or as half-empty. Either way, God does what He wills. You see, I don’t fear death. I fear never singing again…and He damn well knows it.
My heart has its own reason for wanting to sing His praise…and reason won’t dissuade me from that desire. It’s been our common language for most of my life. You see, I’ve always known that I dwell in the shadow of His wing. But this – this fucking hurts. It feels like…like amputation. So here is the “reason” of my heart:
Each morning I’ll arise, offering my day as prayer for those who most need prayer…regardless whether I know them. As the sun climbs, illuminating the delicate leaves of a new Spring, I will “put on Christ,” as Saint Paul fervently implored, as best I can. I will devote myself to trying to bring others to the awareness of Christ within us, flawed as I am. He didn’t make us to be perfect; He made us to follow Him, and to bless each other on the journey.
Peace. Shalom.