First of all, to the handful of people who read this news without the full context before I meant to post it: I am really sorry!

I forgot I had scheduled this to post before I decided to post it after an important consultation to give the fuller picture of my changed circumstances. Again, sorry for the fright, but thanks for the concern just the same.

Here are the events that have led to the most unexpected life-shift:

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Two days before Christmas a discovered a small lump on my throat after trying to rub the sore out of my neck after shoveling a thick blanket of snow from our driveway.

“Surely not…” I thought.

Not me, a healthy 33-year old whose experience with the medical community amounted to three stitches at age two for a split lip and the removal of an ingrown toenail at fourteen!

Though ignorant of human anatomy I figured the small marble chilling just above my collar bone wasn’t supposed to be there. So I did what any of us do when we feel something foreign on our bodies, I jumped on Google.

I’m learning in times like these Google can be your worst enemy or best friend—I got lots of info, but probably more than was best for my psyche at the time. The things I was reading convinced me enough to go see my primary care physician. So I did, the day after Christmas.

That’s when I began to head down the cycle of medical tests and lingo and consults that would eventually lead to this blog post.

First it was a thyroid nodule—the general medical term for unknown lumps. Usually—like 9 out of 10 times—these things are benign nothings. Water filled cysts, but usually if you’re a woman, and between 30 and 50.

So doc had me get an ultrasound—which was sort of ironic, because I got to experience what my wife has been experiencing the past 20 weeks since learning she was pregnant. My neck got a good dose of the cold, creamy goo her tummy gets every four weeks.

Since those results were inconclusive doc ordered an ultrasound biopsy, which meant a numbing agent and a long thin needle to scrape the insides of the alien invader to determine whether I’d be heading down rabbit hole A or B, whether I’d be taking the blue pill or the red one.

I pretty much had prepared myself for rabbit hole B, for the red pill that would transport me into the land of chemotherapy and radiation and thin hospital gowns with backside ventilation. Perhaps I was simply mentally preparing myself for the possibility. But I’ve also heard stories from other cancer patients that you just know that something is off with your body. That something straight out of X-Files is using your body as an incubator.

So at some level I just knew.

The night I received the news I was with my uber-supportive and rockstar wife Melinda at Macaroni Grill. It was our Monday evening date night, and we were stocking up on pasta and wine before she brought me on our first adventure into Buy Buy Baby—an odd land filled with way too many car seats and stroller options for any man.

And then the phone started buzzing—like a bomb ready to burst with devastation.

“It’s a malignant mass,” doc said. Papillary carcinoma, they call it, an important indicator.

As I continued talking with the doc I could see my wife’s countenance change. The red face, the tears, the quivering lower lip. When I got the chance I dropped the doc and scurried next to her to reassure my lovely bride that it was going to be ok. I had done the research beforehand and knew that papillary was the best kind of the best kind of cancer.

So in the middle of suburbia italiana we hugged and cried and praised God and reassured each other it would be alright. It was a sweet moment, for sure.

A week later I would have the near-final moment that would bring this saga to a near end, at least we hope. Yesterday we met with our new surgeon who will be taking away my thyroid and this X-Files-esque being forever on February 10.

He says the surgery has a high success rate, especially for patients who have a very small mass like mine. There are some potential risks, which I’ve listed below, but all in all we are thankful for the progress we’ve made through this very unexpected life-shift, and are hopeful for a complete recovery.

As you can see it’s been quite a 30 day journey, not one I would have chosen, but one I’m finding is and will be good for me. Here are some reasons I am thankful and rejoicing in the midst of this wilderness experience, some things I am learning, and some things you can pray for me and my wife during our season:

Why I’m Thankful

1. I have no secondary symptoms. No massive weight loss. No night sweats. I can swallow and breath alright. No swollen lymph nodes. These and more would have indicated more widespread infection.
2. My tumor is below the “2cm Threshold of Worry.” It is in fact 1.2cm by 1.3cm, which our specialist said is a positive indicator it hasn’t spread and is localized to the thyroid.
3. We have really good health insurance. This is a big one—something I may blog about soon, actually. Even in the post-Obamacare era, if we didn’t have Cadillac insurance like we do we would have been paying tens of thousands of dollars in surgery and post-surgery care. We’ll spend very little when all is said and done.
4. Our doctor is a brother in Christ. Not that non-Christian surgeons don’t rock, too, but knowing my surgeon understands my role in the Church as a pastor and knowing he is a brother has given us an extra measure of comfort.
5. I am married to the most amazing woman on the planet! I cannot imagine walking through this wilderness alone without my Melinda. She has been so comforting and peaceful during these past few weeks, even though she’s going through her own season carrying Baby Bouma. I am in good hands pre- and post-surgery!
6. Because of Christ’s peace and comfort. I’ve never had cancer before so I’m not sure how one is supposed to “feel” at an emotional and existential level. Sure I’ve had bad days—Christmas, of all days, was bad; hard not to let your mind spin out all sorts of crazy scenarios when you’re flying blind! But mostly I have had tremendous peace and have felt comforted in ways I’ve never imagined. The peace of Christ really does surpass all understanding (Phil 4:7) It is creepy, it is illogical. But it sure is present and sweet, and for that I am super thankful.

What I’m Learning

1. God is still good. My Papa has not abandoned or forsaken me simply because the brokenness of creation has invaded my body. He has provided immeasurable amounts of peace and comfort during this time. And I am confident I will still see and continue to see the goodness of the Lord on full display in my life despite these three words.
2. The art of waiting. Those who know me know I am not a patient person—just get in front of me on the highway 🙂 But the past 4 weeks of tests and waiting and more tests and more waiting and then surgery and more waiting is teaching me the art of…just…breathing…waiting—of being still and knowing that God is God (Ps 46:10). Psalm 27 is seared into my brain, especially the last stanza: “Wait for the Lord; Be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.”
3. Life is too fragile, too short. It’s soooo cliché, I know: boy gets cancer; boy ponders the direction of his life; boy changes the direction of his life; curtain call! But it’s true. Words like “cancer” and “fired” and name whatever life-shifting word you’ve experienced yourself tend to put things in perspective. I mean life is a blip, a mere—OMG it’s GONE! I’m not sure my perspective was out of whack before these three words, but I do know it’s been recalibrated for sure! I’ve taken Acts 20:24 as my new anthem to recalibrate and refocus my fragile, short life: “I consider my life worth nothing to me; my only aim is to finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me—the task of testifying to the good news of God’s grace.” That’s my new focus. To live well and work hard…for God’s glory and the common good—because what they say about life, man, it’s soooo true.
4. This world is not the way it’s supposed to be. People at my church know this is a common refrain in my sermons, but until that moment when I heard those three words I didn’t fully grasp its truth. Cancer is not from God. Cancer was never supposed to be just like death was never supposed to be. A guttural moan emanates from deep within this broken, busted world because it knows it is royally screwed up. And now I understand deep down the true measure of that groan.
5. I’m not ready to die. It’s not that I’m not ready, as in I’m unsure of deaths outcome. My hope is in the resurrected Christ who paid my price in my place on those blood-soaked boards of execution that held his limp, lifeless body. I am not afraid to die because I have a sure, steady hope in the resurrection. But I am not at all ready to be done living. Unlike some famous pastors and hymns, I believe this world is our home and we’re not just passing through. Living this life is good. Dying is bad. I want to see my wife give birth to our unborn child and snip it’s umbilical cord. I want to see our child grow up and be some famous scientist who discovers the cure for cancer—and toast him or her a round or twelve of champaign when he or she does! I want to grow old with Melinda and heckle teenagers like a wrinkled ol’ curmudgeon. I still have stuff to write and say. I still have places that I want to travel with my family. There’s still plenty of life to live and enjoy as God intended—and I want to be there until I’m good and old and shriveled like a raisin!

How To Pray

1. This tumor would be arrested. From the start of this I pretty much knew I had a cancerous mass. But one of my prayers was that it would be contained and prevented from spreading. So far it looks that way, but pray that King Jesus would arrest its spread.
2. Surgery will work its magic. Most likely this cancer is localized and contained in my thyroid and this surgery will kick it’s butt! Chance of success and a good recovery is extremely high, so pray it so.
3. Surgery would not compromise my voice. As a pastor my ministry (right now anyway) is connected to my lovely set of horns. Given the nature of this surgery there is a risk of the nerve that’s connected to my vocal chords being severed. While nobody treated by my surgeon has experienced loss of voice, I’d like to not be the first! Though I know God can still use me sans-voice, I’d be super bummed so please pray for preservation of my vocal chords and throat.
4. Surgery would not compromise my calcium. One risk in this kind of surgery is damage to the parathyroid that’s nearby, which controls calcium levels. Though nobody who our surgeon has treated has had such complications, there is risk of it being damaged and resulting in a calcium deficiency, which would not be good long-term.
5. Ultimately, pray God would be glorified and magnified! While I struggle to make sense of this at a theological level—whether God created or allowed this cancer (more on that for sure in another form of writing!)—I know that in all circumstances God is able to produce good, for his glory and honor. Whether that’s good for me or good for someone else or good for His fame. Again, pray it so, please.

While this is not the road my wife and I expected to traverse rolling into 2014, we are learning new lessons about the grace and goodness of God; learning how to praise him in the midst of suffering; and learning how to rest in his peace, comfort, and care. Which means its a darn good road to walk (crawl!) on right now!

If you’ve read ’til the end, well, thanks. It’s been an interesting 4 week. I imagine it will be another set of interesting 3 weeks waiting until surgery, a week of post-surgery recuperation, 8 weeks of post-surgery monitoring, and then 5 years of 3-4 a year of appointments as a continued cancer patient.

That is until 1,845 days from now, by the grace and mercy and goodness of God, I can say the next three words I can’t wait to shout:

I’m cancer free! I beat cancer! (even better, me thinks)

PS—”Whatever it takes,” right Jenny? Amen and Amen 🙂