In Search of My Voice: Oasis #8 – Letting Go

I am Lazarus.

Dead in the tomb four days, there was a stench.  Since Monday last, my soul had resigned itself to the perceived reality that my surgeon’s next communique’ would be arranging the start of radiation to my vocal cords.  There would be change.  My voice would never again be my own.  

Four days, I lay in the tomb of resignation.  For four days, I waited on the pronouncement of “next steps;” for the assumed to be made official; for the tomb to be sealed; for the beginning of the end.

Friday dawned without a word.  Nervously checking the medical portal, for any messages from my surgeon, felt like the first time, when he called me late on a Friday afternoon to say he had some “unfortunate news.”  Yeah, “unfortunate” – but the phone didn’t ring.  

Shortly after 2:00 pm, I again checked the portal, and found a message:

After some medical jargon describing a vocal cord that had been ravaged, and the attendant thickening of the epithelial layer, he continued:  

Rereading his words multiple times, certain I must be missing something, I no longer knew how to feel…anything.  In disbelief, I finally laid down and closed my eyes. 

I am Lazarus.

When He called me forth, through the gentle nudge of my wife awakening me, barely in time to make it to Good Friday service at our church, I arose with conflicting emotions.  The entire week had been spent preparing myself for letting go, for filling my days with medical measures to preserve life over voice.  Suddenly, it became apparent that everything would change…that everything had changed.  

Listening to our choir lovingly deliver one musical piece after another, my soul was compelled to sing with them.  But the meaning of the lyrics – and the spirit with which they poured out their love for God – brought me to tears.  How is it that I should aspire to be with them again, when every day of the last eight months felt like slow, deliberate death?  

Lyrics of one of my favorite hymns kept playing last evening, incessantly, in my head and heart:

In contemplating Christ’s passion, our parish priest leaned on the contemplation of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, observing that even in death, Jesus ensured that we would be fed, cared for, and assured of familial connection – just as he committed his mother and disciple to the care of one another – through the promise of our resurrection with him.  For me, it was a flashpoint of realization:  how and why I’ve always known, despite my troubled family of origin, that I have felt protected in the shadow of his wing.  I humbly submit, dear reader, that the same is no less true for each of us.

I am Lazarus.

And I am deserving of NONE of His grace.  My sins are many.  But the prayers of many have been answered, despite the mystery that remains.  How humbling it is to feel oneself being lifted by such prayers.  Saint Paul was right:  

One day, I will experience what He experienced – indeed, what we all will experience.  Washed in His blood, He has shown me a foretaste of His death and resurrection…and it has transformed me.

Indeed, YOU are also Lazarus, being called forth from the tomb of your doubt and worry.  Allow Him to transform you…this is my Easter prayer for you.

He IS Risen.

Peace.  Shalom.