[Part of this post was later adapted into a chapter for a Chicken Soup of the Soul book. The book chapter uses a pseudonym for Reagan.]
It's been a rough fall. I started tamoxifen on August 1, with much dread. Nonetheless, the first weeks were a breeze; my worries seemed unfounded.
But soon I began experiencing hot flashes. Even though they were more frequent and more severe than the typical patient experiences, I soldiered on. I told my doctor that I could certainly handle that after going though chemotherapy. Many fellow survivors assured me that things improve after a period of adjustment.
However, as the weeks went by, I developed additional health problems that were likely related to tamoxifen's effects but were far more severely uncomfortable than hot flashes. Things seemed to get worse and worse rather than improving. After two months of seeing specialist after specialist and trying treatment after treatment, I was disheartened and upset. I returned to my oncologist, and he took me off tamoxifen. It was a relief to me, even if it increases my risk of recurrence. I am at peace with the decision and am slowly recovering my health.
During the month of October, in the midst of my discomfort, my prayer buddies began to pray that God would bless me with a wonderful November. They remembered that I was diagnosed with cancer last November and that I dreaded that anniversary, November 30.
November 1 came. I was still on tamoxifen and miserable.
Mid-November, my doctor took me off tamoxifen, but the side effects were unrelenting.
Late-November, I resigned myself to an unanswered prayer for a wonderful month. Oh, well, it's not big deal, I told myself. I blamed myself for not insisting weeks earlier on being taken off the medication. And it was my own decision to accept some work projects, which always add another layer of stress onto our busy household and didn't help improve the month.
But the second-to-last day of November, God made my month wonderful. I ran into a neighbor with whom I once served on the local church's council. "I need to tell you something," he said with an air of mystery. "Do you remember Reagan?" I knew he wasn't talking about the former President, but I didn't know anyone else by that name. Seeing my blank look, my friend continued, "He was that homeless man sleeping in the church garage five years ago."
Then I remembered. I hadn't known his name that Sunday afternoon five years ago when we, the church council, had learned that a homeless man was sleeping in our garage. He wasn't a nameless, faceless stranger; he was born and raised in our little town. His mother still lived here, and many older residents remembered him as a boy. But now he was back, but as a broken man,addicted to alcohol and homeless. These are overwhelmingly complex issues, and we -- the church council -- felt inadequate in choosing the best course of action regarding the man sleeping in our garage. We wanted to be compassionate but not enabling. We wanted to protect him but also address the fears of neighborhood parents. We had no idea what to do.
"Remember how you left him your sleeping bag?" Jim asked me. I did. I remember, after our council meeting that Sunday, going home and then returning to church with a sleeping bag from our camping gear. It was winter, and the weather forecast predicted a low of 19 degrees that night. I remember stepping fearfully into that cold, dark garage. I remember seeing no evidence that anyone had been sleeping on that oil-stained cement floor, under that roof so decrepit that it seemed only moss was holding it together. I remember leaving my sleeping bag with a note saying that it was from the congregation, so that -- if he did show up -- he would not feel guilty taking the sleeping bag. At the time, my act seemed shamefully inadequate, like a bandaid on an amputation.
I was shy about following up on my meager offering. But after several weeks, I peeked into the garage and saw that the sleeping bag was gone. There was no way of knowing if it had reached its desired recipient or had simply been removed by a zealous tidier.
I had completely forgotten about the sleeping bag until Jim mentioned it last week. "Reagan came to church this Sunday," Jim told me. "He gave his testimony." Reagan is now sober and has a job and a home. He came to thank the church and the AA group he attends there on weekdays for all their encouragement and support, for helping him turn his life around. "Reagan remembered the sleeping bag," Jim said. "He mentioned how much it meant to him and he thanked the congregation for it."
And that is God's gift. On November 30, my "cancer-versary," I was not dwelling on how harsh my life has been over the past year or how much I've lost. Rather, it was a day of rejoicing about how much has been gained. What a joy and privilege to minister to a child of God on His behalf! How wonderful that a tiny, forgotten act of kindness could have made a difference in someone's life. It's one, small, behind-the-scenes glimpse of how God is bringing about His kingdom on this earth.
When I consider what it means to be held in the palm of God's hand, I have always dwelt on His palm as a source of refuge and strength to people like me and Reagan. It is! But God's palm is even more than that: now I see that it's also where He holds His tools. The people in His palm are those God can use to accomplish all He sets out to do. I was God's tool in encouraging Reagan, and now he has been God's tool in encouraging me. And all without us ever even meeting! Knowing that God works this way in our fallen world, can you IMAGINE how amazing heaven will be?
