Friday, May 19, 2006
I admit it, I'm a doubting Thomas
I had a 4000 yd swim this morning. That's twelve twelves. At least that is how I break it down. Life is more doable in neat little packages like that. I love to swim laps. For the most part it's simple now. Stroke, breathe, stroke, breathe etc etc turn stroke breathe etc. I swam next to a polar bear this morning, or at least that is what the mass of white beer belly looked like with each breath towards the west wall (I really need to learn to not laugh underwater, but the guy had big paw like hands and he swam just like a polar bear). Water has a way of distorting my vision, yet when I swim things can become so clear. I've been in an odd funk these last several weeks, which for you explains the sporadic posting. But, my mind has been preoccupied.
About four weeks ago we received a disconcerting email, "please remember to pray for Henry, he's been passing blood." With periodic medical updates, that message progressed to "please remember to pray for Henry, he has colon cancer"
Henry can't have colon cancer, that means he might die. People die from colon cancer. Good people die from colon cancer. and Henry is one of the truly good people that I know. He would blush, and he would deny that, and he would say the only good inside him is what the good Lord put there. And that is exactly what makes him such a rock, a plesant stream in a life of fiery troubles, because he is just full of the kind of things that the good Lord puts there. If my faith is my foundation, and Trihubby is my constant fortress, then Henry and his lovely wife (my good friend) are the gatekeepers of the wall that surrounds my soul. They are the cheerleaders, and the encouragers, they are wise and they are kind and most importantly, they have just "been there". For years. The idea of Henry not "being there" sent my mind into tilt.
By God's good grace, "Henry has cancer" progressed to "Henry's cancer hasn't perforated the colon wall" to "the surgery went just fine, able to remove the whole mass laproscopically" to "the 40 some biopsies taken were all clear" to "you're doing well, Henry, you can go home now--cancer free"
For some reason my mind got stuck on "Henry has cancer" and that means he might die. Even though he has been home from the hospital for almost two weeks. I didn't really expect it to be so, but my faith was shaken, and it just hadn't had time to catch up with reality. My vision was distorted.
So I swam this morning. The greatest thing about my swim this morning is that Henry's doctor had cleared him to aqua jog, so he came with me. Each time I would pause at the wall, I'd look over and see Henry running along in the other lane. Just like he does outdoors, I'm sure he was meditating and praying. Lap after lap passed, and every so often I would catch a glimpse of legs running through the water and it occured to me that it was finally ok to believe Henry was ok. I didn't have to doubt anymore.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go run for two hours, and cry. Because Henry is going to be ok.