House on the Rock

That warm August afternoon, I did exactly what I planned to do. Almost. I walked to the park. I basked in the sun. I read a book. I planned how I was going to surprise Joe with a pizza picnic to celebrate the survival of week one. Mom was in the hospital, but surely not for long. Surely with nothing serious. That wasn’t going to happen.

My phone pinged with a text from Dad, delivered to me, Cam, and Christen: “Hey guys! Mom would love it if you would come down here to hang. I’ll buy dinner.”

This text seemed harmless enough, but my gut turned to a rock. I began shaking. For a reason I’ll never fully understand, I just knew we were heading toward bad news. I called Christen, who also wasn’t planning on visiting that night. “I think we need to go,” I said. “I think it’s bad.”

At a traffic light on the way to meet Christen, I called Cam. I told him the same thing. It was that impending feeling of doom – sort of like the yellow-gray stillness before a massive storm. Despite my siblings’ best efforts of encouragement, I couldn’t shake the feeling that our world was about to get turned upside down. I left a tearful voicemail to Joe and hit the road. “Sorry I’m not ordering pizza,” I cried.

I met up with my siblings and headed south. Our car ride was quiet. We tried not to assume, tried to focus on truth: God was in control. When we finally arrived on the third floor, I burst in the door and exclaimed like an idiot, “Do you have bad news?”

My parents’ eyebrows shot up in unison. “Uh, no! What?” They stammered. Dad whisked us downstairs to the dining hall for that promised meal. I felt embarrassed at my outburst. I barely touched my soup or salad. Joe arrived mid-meal and I apologized for the drama, whispering, “Sorry about my voicemail. I guess nothing’s wrong after all.” 

But the feeling of impending doom was not in vain. We walked back upstairs. Joe rubbed my back as we walked. I feigned being fine; after all, Mom and Dad said nothing was wrong. I had certainly asked directly enough. As it turned out, however, while Dad purchased Joe’s dining-hall dinner, he whispered these painful words to the husband of his oldest daughter: “I’m about to rock their world, and I need you to support her.” Joe nodded. Mission understood. 

Back upstairs, we sat around Mom. Dad looked at her, nodded, and they both took in a shaky, tearful breath. “Um, let’s pray,” Dad led. It felt like the longest prayer of all time, as we could all suddenly and simultaneously sense that a crushing weight was about to befall us. 

Finally, the message was clear. They found cancer. Not sure where or how much, but its presence was certain. After all, healthy people didn’t just get massive blood clots on their lungs. Healthy people didn’t have fluid pooling around their heart. 

We cried hard. Squeezed each other’s hands. Prayed fervently, perhaps more than ever before. I even gagged, twice, as my body viscerally responded to the devastating news. Luckily the gagging brought laughter, and we found other reasons to laugh, and smile, and rejoice. They were going to do everything to fight it. God had already protected her thus far. He was, and is, a miracle worker. He would certainly use this for good.