I believe my husband will be healed.
I don’t mean that in the church goer’s weak interpretation of healing, which is actually dying. I believe that his body that was so forcefully intruded upon, these lungs that are pushing against the pressure of these disgusting trespassers of tumors for every breath, will be restored. I believe that all of him, all of his Earthly body will be completely and beautifully healed right here on this side of heaven.
You probably just read that one of two ways.
- You’re saying, “Heck yeah you do!” as you send me a virtual high five.
- (and probably most common) You’re shaking your head and saying, “Oh, this poor girl and her denial.”
I’ve seen this second reaction a lot. Every time I tried to speak optimistically in these hard heart to hearts with our doctors, they would realistically, but oh so lovingly, look at me with an expression that pretty much said these exact words.
The thing is, they’ve seen this before, and it is their job to be pessimistic. It is their job to tell us the true, earthly odds. Medically speaking, we are at a point of no return.
These medical professionals, they have the greatest hearts, but they see my husband, and they hear him say things like, “When I beat this, you owe me a pizza,” and they feel sad because all they can see is a twenty-five year old who just can’t bear to grasp the magnitude of the situation. They see me, and they see the wife that is in for a long journey of grief when I finally come to terms with “reality.”
They see us through the lenses that they have to see us through. This is their career, and it’s a heavy one.
But the end of the day, we are different people than their other patients. My husband is a different case. Those who came before us, those who didn’t make it- they have absolutely no impact on our destiny.
We’re no better than them. We just aren’t them. We refuse to accept the idea that we have already lost a game still being played simply because other teams have lost to this competitor before us.
People expect us to accept realty and start to process, but honestly, we lose nothing by fighting day after day and believing that this may not be the end.
We lose nothing by recognizing miracles, by basking in the hospice nurse’s confusion at the solid vitals.
We lose nothing by fueling Andrew’s body with nutrients and telling it to fight, as long as he is willing to- and trust me, this man in front of me has more will to fight than anyone I have ever met.
We lose nothing by having faith.
One day I read an article about possible treatment options for the specific cancer my husband has. This article concluded with a quote from a real-life doctor in the field. He said, “Ewing’s Sarcoma is not the kind of cancer that we see ‘miracles’ with.”
What a modern and flawed interpretation of a miracle. Basically, what he was saying was that Ewing’s Sarcoma is not the type of cancer that he can fix, and therefore it is impossible.
Unfortunately, that way of thinking is pretty common. Time and time again we have received that sad look from medical professionals, even from other Christians, when they suggest that entering a realm outside of the possible influence of medicine is the equivalent of already being dead.
Our comprehension of miracles is so narrow to earth. It is so revolving around human possibilities. It revolves around making the doctors a god, and telling the real God to play second fiddle .
We, as Christians, tend to put God in a box by stepping out of faith when medicine fails us. We step out of faith because we have become so programmed to believe that the only miracles that can take place here are medical miracles. We put God in a box when we count out complete, unexplained, and divine healing.
As for me, and as for my husband- we have no interest in putting God in a box.
My husband is alive. No medical professional can explain it. But my husband continues to fight, so why the hell would I not? My husband continues to have faith, so why the hell would I not?
It’s not easy. I’m not bold or brave. I’m terrified. He is terrified.
Having faith is scary. Writing this blog is scary. Publishing it for all of you who might shake your head, reject my thoughts, or even worse, pity us, that is hard, ugly- but faith is hard. Faith is ugly. Faith will make you look like an idiot at times.
Faith makes you build a giant arc to protect you from the flood, while the sun is still shining- no threat of rain anywhere to be found.
Faith is building a wall around Jerusalem, while people laugh and tell you that this project is ludicrous, unnecessary.
Faith is going before pharaoh, going before your enemy, going before your cancer day after day and saying “Let my people go.” “Let my husband go.” “Let my body go.”
Faith is planning a long future filled with joy, laughter, and maybe a kid or two right after getting a prognosis of weeks.
Faith is writing this blog, sharing this vulnerable truth, without any control of tomorrow.
Faith is daring to redefine what the medical field deems a miracle.
Faith is telling your doctor, “When I’m healed, you owe me a pizza.”
I have a front row seat to relentless faith. I am continually blown away by my husband’s relentless pursuit of life despite the odds stacked against him. I am here to tell you, this kind of faith, it is contagious. I tell you that because you are reading this blog written by a girl who stepped away from her own faith just three years ago.
I believe my husband will be healed, because I believe in my husband. I believe my husband will be healed, because I believe in my God.
I believe my husband will be healed- and I’m not giving you the churchy and earthly scapegoat of “even if he dies he is healed.” I don’t feel called to say that, so I won’t. I feel called to say this, to write this. I don’t need to offer a scapegoat, because I don’t believe in that scapegoat.
I believe my husband will be healed- and that’s really all I have to say on the matter.
Thank you for standing with me.