tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64215475624837071842024-03-12T20:03:36.949-05:00From Where I StandThoughts on life, worship, and life as worship.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-74545586855970978002017-09-22T12:23:00.000-05:002017-09-22T12:23:58.057-05:00September 2017 UpdateMy health has been quite a journey over the past four years or so! For a year and a half now, I've been pretty silent on this blog, mainly because I've been enjoying life with my family and ministry with my church. But, new challenges are fast approaching on the horizon, and I'd like to update anyone who is interested so you can join us in prayer.<br />
<br />
(I've written numerous posts before now telling the story of my diagnosis and treatment of Acute Myeloid Leukemia. Feel free to skim those if none of this is making sense! Those posts start <a href="https://chrishancheyblog.blogspot.com/2014/03/telling-my-story.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)<br />
<br />
<b>NOVEMBER TO NOW</b><br />
After September 2015, I had no detectable leukemia activity in my body. I was going to MD Anderson in Houston every 3 months for checkups and all tests continued to be negative. There was that one blip on the radar where I got testicular cancer that turned out to be unrelated to the leukemia.<br />
<br />
Well, last November the most sensitive of all my tests revealed that an important measurement (known as PCR) had resurfaced in my tests. At that point, it was at 0.01%. My doctor thought there was a good chance it was a false positive. After all, we are talking one abnormal cell out of 100,000. How could they find that?!<br />
<br />
In February 2017, that number climbed to 0.03%. "Nothing to worry about, Chris," said my doctor. "We'll continue to monitor this trend. If it continues to grow, I would like to recommend that you enter a clinical trial. There's lots of great research going on in immunotherapy. As opposed to chemotherapy, which just poisons your body, immunotherapy can actually help your body's immune system fight the cancer cells as they form." That sounded cool to me! He went on, "If your PCR rises to something like 0.1% we will begin to explore those options."<br />
<br />
Then May happened.<br />
<br />
LAKE CLAIBORNE (AGAIN!)<br />
In a very poetic twist, a group of friends had scheduled a guys weekend at Lake Claiborne State Park, about 30 minutes away. This was the same guys and the same state park where I realized I was seriously ill in October of 2013. I wrote about that weekend <a href="https://chrishancheyblog.blogspot.com/2014/04/rsgc.html" target="_blank">here</a>. As we drove through the gates on that beautiful Friday afternoon, I commented that it was a bit eerie revisiting this place that carried so much emotion for me 3 1/2 years earlier.<br />
<br />
After dinner, we gathered around a card table and I wondered how long it would take me to lose my $10 so I could go to bed. But my phone buzzed in my pocket. "New test result from MD Anderson." Yay! (I was very accustomed to these emails). I quickly logged in to clear the <b>bold letters</b> of the unread test result, because who could live any other way?!<br />
<br />
But something caught my eye. This wasn't the PCR test. It was some other chromosomal-analysis something or other that I had never even looked at before, because as long as I'd been checking these results, it had always been normal. But these results weren't normal. Something called <i>aberrant myeloblasts </i>had been detected. I had no idea what those were, but I didn't like the sound of them. I tried to muscle through the rest of that weekend without bringing my black cloud on the rest of the guys.<br />
<br />
A couple days later, the PCR results would come in: 5.7%. Remember, my doc had said if I reach 0.1% I'd be a decent candidate for the clinical trial. But I was at 5.7%. I figured I was knocking on death's door, began putting my affairs in order, etc.<br />
<br />
(That's a joke, kinda. But processing news like that never gets easy. For a few nights, I couldn't sleep well. I'd toss and turn, and wake up in a sweat, hoping that it wasn't real. But it was. I'd lay there next to Karen, who probably wasn't sleeping great either. And my mind would fill with Bible verses. But not verses about hope and joy and peace. Honestly, the one that replayed in my head most was Jonah 2:5-6 - <i>I sank beneath the waves, and waters closed over me. Seaweed wrapped itself around my head. I sank down to the very roots of the mountains. I was imprisoned in the earth, whose gates lock shut forever.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Not very encouraging, I know. But it's what I felt at the time. I was re-entering the nightmare, and there was nothing I could do to stop it or even slow it down. I had no control. Life as I hoped it would be was slipping from my grasp, and I was being pulled down into a hopeless darkness.<br />
<br />
My doctor decided that he'd still like to try the immunotherapy clinical trial, and he was optimistic about its results in other patients. So for June and July, that's what I did. In August, my PCR was 47%. I was numb to the numbers at this point. It seemed crazy that a few short months ago I had been alarmed that this number was at 0.03%. Man, perspective is everything.<br />
<br />
It had become clear that a stem cell transplant was my best option at this point. This treatment has been something I've dreaded since my diagnosis, even though it's the most effective treatment of AML. It's hard.<br />
<br />
Here's the gist: they blast me with really strong chemotherapy that wipes out my body's ability to create new blood cells (because my body keeps creating unhealthy blood cells that give me leukemia.) Then, when all my stem cells are dead, they give me the stem cells of a matching donor. My body will then literally begin producing that person's blood in my bone marrow. It's crazy. And amazing.<br />
<br />
My team in Houston has been working hard to coordinate all the details of the transplant. After learning that none of my siblings were matches, they went to their database and found two 10/10 DNA matches for me. Lots of patients tragically never find a match. It's amazing to know that I've got two, even though they'll only actually use the stem cells from one. I have no idea who these folks are, or where they live in the world. But it's an amazing thing that two complete strangers have agreed to step forward, endure some inconvenience, and save my life.<br />
<br />
In preparation, I've undergone two round of chemo now that have killed almost all the abnormal cell growth in my body. My PCR is back at 0.01%. (Entering chemo with no active disease is a really positive thing).<br />
<br />
<b>NOW UNTIL JANUARY?</b><br />
Yesterday, we finally got some solid dates and have begun making plans for this treatment. Here's what we know: I'll head to Houston on October 4 for some pretests. My actual transplant date (birthday?) is set at October 31, which I'll happily share with my new baby niece, Leddy, who is planning to enter the world on that day.<br />
<br />
Lots of things will happen between now and then. It's like a countdown to a rocket launch. Pretests, pre-treatments, admittance to the hospital on October 24, and then the heavy chemo leading to transplant.<br />
<br />
This will be a challenging season for our family, to say the least. Starting October 24, I'll be in the hospital for a month. Physically, this will be a very demanding time. Upon release from the hospital, I'll need to stay in Houston for approximate two more months as my body recovers and I go in for countless tests and transfusions. If all goes well, I should be able to return home in mid- to late-January. The Hancheys will enjoy Thanksgiving and Christmas together in Houston!<br />
<br />
Please pray for us. Pray for my strength and healing obviously. But also pray for Karen. She'll be sprinting back and forth between Ruston and Houston often. Pray for Marilyn, our sweet precious friend who has graciously accepted our invitation to be a fill-in mom for our three kids who will stay in Ruston for most of this time. And pray for our kids - Jude (8) , Owen (6), and Charlotte (4). We trust God's wisdom in all this, but often question His timing. These are such formative years for them, and our hearts ache that part of that formation includes having a mom and dad who can't be with them for long stretches of time.<br />
<br />
But God made mountains and valleys for a reason. A flat world sure would be boring.<br />
<br />
Here are two lessons I'm learning:<br />
<br />
1. <b>Dreading it is harder than living it.</b> Thinking about walking through the valley of the shadow of death is way worse than actually walking through it. So that's what we're doing. We're putting one foot in front of the other, hanging on the promise: "for You are with me." (Psalm 23)<br />
<br />
2. <b>Hope that terminates on this life is no hope</b>. I believe God will heal me through this. I really do. But if He doesn't, the content or object of my hope will not have changed. My health, one day, will ultimately fail. Jesus entered the tomb, so I know that I'm not alone even there if I die from acute myeloid leukemia. But Jesus also walked out of the tomb. And when He did, He revealed that one day I'll rise from whatever grave I'm in and enter a renewed, restored, redeemed creation forever. And everything that has been ruined by sin will be undone and made right. That's my defining reality. Sometimes it just takes the valley of the shadow of death to remind me of it.<br />
<br />
Thanks everybody for reading. I'll try and do a better job keeping you up to date.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-4356225663831075822016-03-03T15:00:00.000-06:002016-03-03T15:00:26.431-06:00I Have Testicular Cancer!Good news today! My urologist called about 10:30 this morning. "Mr. Hanchey, I'd like to discuss your pathology reports if you have time." <i>Uh, yeah Doc. I think I can work you in. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
He said that the tumor they removed last week was revealed to be a Seminoma, which is your garden-variety testicular cancer. It's what my brother had in the summer of 2013, and it's exactly what we've been praying for. This was a best-case scenario for us after our trips to Houston the last few weeks. It seems backwards to say, "Yay! I have testicular cancer!" But such is the strange journey I'm on.<br />
<br />
Here's the gist: I will not be undergoing any new treatment. I repeat: <i>no new treatment</i>. The doctors will continue to monitor my blood levels alongside my normal tests for leukemia. There is an 80-90% chance that there will be no recurrence of this cancer.<br />
<br />
Karen and I are breathing a huge sigh of relief today. It's amazing how much one bit of good news can change your entire outlook on life. I woke up this morning, and literally everything was on pause. We could not make any plans about anything. Everything was day to day. Then I have one three minute phone call, and life seems to be back to normal - a better, more wonderful normal.<br />
<br />
There are certain things we just can't know, but my doctors were not encouraging when I was in Houston two weeks ago. All signs were pointing to a leukemia relapse. Karen and I don't want to discount the role of prayer in this situation. We have a strong sense of God's intervention in our situation, as we know that tons of people were praying very fervently for us. It is a humbling, encouraging, and life-giving thing to know that people are bringing our needs before the Father.<br />
<br />
We want to thank all of you for your prayers, love, encouragement, service, gifts, and friendship. God's blessings come to us in very diverse ways - maybe especially through trials. You all are a gift to me. Thank you.<br />
<br />
<i>The Lord sits enthroned over the flood; the Lord is enthroned as King forever.</i><br />
<i>The Lord gives strength to His people; the Lord blesses His people with peace.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I will exalt You, Lord, for You lifted me out of the depths</i><br />
<i>and did not let my enemies gloat over me.</i><br />
<i>Lord my God, I called to You for help, and You healed me.</i><br />
<i>You, Lord, brought me up from the realm of the dead;</i><br />
<i>You spared me from going down to the pit. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>- Psalm 29:10-30:3</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-36368166885052205912016-02-27T11:58:00.003-06:002016-02-27T11:58:53.867-06:00February 2016 UpdateHello everyone! Forgive me for not keeping all of you up to date for the past year or so.<br />
<br />
Many of you know I've recently had some new health issues come up, and I'll do my best to catch you up here.<br />
<br />
<b>LAST YEAR</b><br />
<br />
First, a fly-by of the past year and a half. My last update was in September 2014, when I began my new chemo regimen - maintenance Decitabine. Every 6 weeks or so, I went to my home clinic for a couple hours for five consecutive days. This chemo was much less toxic than my first regimen, and I went straight to work after getting my dose of poison. Thankfully, my treatment really didn't affect my work schedule at all. Most weeks, I preached the Sunday after receiving five straight days of chemo, something that would not have been possible the year before.<br />
<br />
Throughout that year, I traveled to Houston regularly for bone marrow biopsies. (That's really the only way to monitor the effectiveness of my treatment.) In my last update, I explained about Minimal Residual Disease (MRD), and how they measure it with a process called Polymerase Chain Reaction (PCR). For the entire year, that number didn't change. It stayed at 0.01, barely hanging on, taunting me, reminding me that I was not through with this whole cancer thing. Honestly, I just resigned myself to the fact that it wasn't gonna change. I had done almost two years of chemo to no avail.<br />
<br />
My doctor had told me that I would do this new regimen for one calendar year. I began my first round on September 15, 2014, and snuck in my 10th round on September 14, 2015. After my levels rebounded, I headed to Houston for my next bone marrow biopsy. A few days later, I went through the obligatory process of logging into my account and checking my test results. Lo and behold, it changed! "No morphologic evidence of AML detected by Real Time PCR." I didn't know what to say! I emailed the doctor just to make sure I was reading it right, and he confirmed that this is what we've been hoping for. It was just such a good gift from God, that at a point when no more treatment was an option, He gave me this report. I went back in January 2016, and it was still clear. Yay!<br />
<br />
<b>LAST WEEK</b><br />
<br />
Those clear reports really changed our whole perspective. For the first time since 2013, I began to live with the assumption that I was going to live a normal life. We began making longer term plans, dreaming about the future. One night a couple weeks ago, I went into the kids bedrooms while they were sleeping and thanked God that I was going to watch them grow up. My trips to Houston no longer carried dread about what we might find out; instead, they were just confirmation that I was still healthy.<br />
<br />
I'm gonna be candid here. Men have testicles. End of biology lesson.<br />
<br />
A few months ago, I noticed a change in my left testicle. I had noticed changes there before, and had actually consulted my doctors about it back in 2009. Tests were run, and I was assured that everything was normal. Dealing with something like leukemia has a way of causing you to neglect other health concerns. Like, "I'm doing chemo. I'll deal with this later." One day last month, I went with Karen to an ENT appointment she had, and the Urology desk was next to hers. I went over and made an appointment on a whim. She told me to come back the following Tuesday.<br />
<br />
The following week, I showed my urologist what I had found. He ordered a testicular ultrasound (always a fun experience!). Afterward, he informed me that it wasn't a cyst. His gut was that it was cancerous. "I'd just take it out," he said. "We would know more after that." I honestly wasn't very phased. After Leukemia, testicular cancer didn't seem all that daunting to me (it has like a 98% cure rate in most cases). More of a nuisance than anything.<br />
<br />
That afternoon, I emailed my doctor's team in Houston. "Off-topic question," I said. I explained what we had found and why my doctor here had suggested. He wrote back within five minutes (not a normal occurrence). "This isn't off topic! I strongly suggest you come to Houston for tests. We need to rule out the possibility that this is a leukemia relapse."<br />
<br />
My heart sank when I read that. But I felt confident in a few things: 1) My bone marrow was normal at the molecular level. How could this be AML? 2) This thing had been hanging out for a while, and I hadn't noticed much growth. My tumors from AML grew at an alarming rate. 3) My brother had testicular cancer a few months before I got diagnosed in 2013. If your brother has testicular cancer, you're 8X more likely to get it.<br />
<br />
With all that in mind, Karen and I went to Houston feeling pretty confident and at ease. I had labs drawn, got to have another ultrasound, and then saw the doc. From the start, we feel like they've been preparing us for the worst. He knocked down all my theories as to why this wouldn't be leukemia. He said that it could present as a tumor outside the bone marrow even if my bone marrow was 100% healthy. He said there is no "normal" when it comes to these things.<br />
<br />
Then the tumor markers in my blood started coming back. Testicular cancer would elevate these levels. Leukemia would not. One by one, they came back normal. In other words, it's not likely this is testicular cancer. Our hope began to fade. The doctor explained that the only way to get an accurate diagnosis would be to biopsy the tissue. They'd do a PET scan to see if there were any more tumors (there weren't!), but the only way to biopsy the tissue would be to remove a testicle.<br />
<br />
So yesterday, I had surgery in Houston. It was surprisingly easy. I feel a bit sore, but good overall. Now we wait. If the pathology reveals that I have indeed relapsed with AML, we will begin preparing for a Stem Cell Transplant. This has been a dreaded scenario since Day One for me. A transplant is a difficult and risky procedure, but it is the most effective way to treat leukemia. But over the past week God has settled my heart, and I'm even ready for this.<br />
<br />
I've been reading Tim Keller's <i>The Songs of Jesus</i> as part of my daily devotional, and it has ministered to me deeply. Yesterday, before my surgery, the reading was on Psalm 31. Verse 15 contains the phrase "My times are in Your hands," and it replayed in my mind all day yesterday. No matter how confusing or discouraging my circumstances are, God is sovereign over them. I trust His goodness, His wisdom, and His love for me and my family.<br />
<br />
I am deeply moved by your concern for me. Thank you for following my story and for remembering me in prayer. I am not alone. That makes all the difference.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-49376451124886049752015-05-18T11:09:00.000-05:002015-05-18T11:09:34.400-05:00Resection<i style="background-color: white; color: #666666; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This is the 9th of a series of posts chronicling Chris' battle with Acute Myeloid Leukemia.</span></i><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>*</i>It's been quite a while since I posted anything. I'm picking up where I left the story off in the post called <a href="http://chrishancheyblog.blogspot.com/2014/07/the-first-couple-days.html" target="_blank">"The First Couple Days."</a> Feel free to skim that post if you'd like a refresher. As always, thanks for reading. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><b>GOING PUBLIC</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">That Sunday morning (October 20, 2013) I stood up in front of our church and told them what I knew, which wasn't much. Basically, I had some type of cancer growing in my abdomen and on my back, and that the doctors were waiting for some more information before they could decide what I had. I had been told it's "probably either a lymphoma or sarcoma," and I relayed that news to the congregation. I was honest - I told them I was scared, but that I believed two things beyond any doubt: God is strong, and God is good. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Some people came to me after the service and told me how relieved they were to hear that it was a lymphoma, because those are super-duper treatable. (This was encouraging news at the time, but would haunt me in the coming months once I found out that I did not have a lymphoma - or really a sarcoma for that matter.) </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Someone else told me about a website called <a href="http://chrisbeatcancer.com/">chrisbeatcancer.com</a>. That afternoon, while the whole family was napping, I watched a video on his homepage. That ten minutes was a very important moment for me in my treatment, and one that I would recommend to anyone facing any type of cancer. God used that guy's testimony to bring comfort to my soul, and to help me breathe a bit deeper about the whole process. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">When I met with Dr. Osafo on Tuesday, he updated me on my condition. He said that the biopsy revealed the cancer to be a <i>myeloid sarcoma</i>, which is a tumor that sometimes presents itself alongside <i>acute myeloid leukemia</i>, a cancer of the blood. What perplexed him is that my bone marrow was clear, so I wasn't showing other symptoms of leukemia. He suggested that they perform a resection of my terminal ilium (they'd cut out a lot of my small intestine), let the doctors get more information about it, and then we move forward with treatment. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I was speaking regularly to one of my best friends from college named Jason Mizell who also happens to be a surgeon specializing in abdominal cancers. I know, right? Jason actually went through medical school with Dr. Byrnes who was operating on me, so Jason was able to call him and then translate all the doctor speak for me over the phone. Jason told me that leukemia isn't usually treated with surgery, but with chemotherapy, so he was confused as to why I would take that route. But when he heard that my pain was such that I could not eat or function, he understood and agreed. We scheduled my surgery for Thursday, October 24. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">Throughout that week, my stomach pain came back in waves. It would spike, I would vomit, and then it would subside again. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I called Dr. Byrnes numerous times that week asking if he would go ahead and admit me, as my pain was often unbearable. On Wednesday, he finally did. I would undergo surgery the next morning, but wasn't nervous or even concerned. Because Dilaudid. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><b>SURGERY</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">On the morning of my surgery, Dr. Byrnes came in and gave me the run down of what they were going to do to me. He reiterated that this surgery would not cure my cancer, but would buy me some time to get to MD Anderson and take next steps. He hoped to perform the procedure with a scope, but that could only happen if the tumor was pretty localized. If the cancer was widespread he would need to "open me up," which meant make an incision that looks like a big question mark around my naval. This option would be much more painful with a much slower recovery. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I woke up a few hours later and was told that I had a huge incision that looks like a question mark around my naval. I was woozy, but remember there being a really somber atmosphere in the room. I have a friend named Debi who is a surgical nurse and was in the room when they opened me up. She has told me that my procedure was her darkest day as a nurse. When they looked inside me, cancer was everywhere. No one expected it to be as widespread and advanced as it was. They were shocked that any food had passed through my intestines at all. Dr. Byrnes removed about two feet of my small intestine, which was the most affected portion. But he said that there was still lots more cancer, and that it would grow quickly. (Debi also told me that the cancer was green, which has been an interesting fact throughout this whole ordeal). </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I didn't care about any of this at the time. All I cared about was the large tube running from my stomach out my nose that drained blood for the next two days. Is that the only way to drain a man's stomach these days?! </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">The night of my surgery, the nursing staff got pretty concerned. I was so doped up on pain meds, my heart rate and breathing were dangerously low. I think I was breathing 6 times per minute. At one point I remember waking up to the nurse standing over me calling my name to make sure I was still breathing at all. They had a little mini-conference in the hall, and they they gave me some pain-med-reversal drug from the pit of hell, and it brought all my pain out into the light. I was miserable. I begged my nurse to give me a pain killer, but she was of the drill-sergeant variety and was waiting for my blood pressure to reach a certain point. Even though clouded from the anesthesia, I remember the pain. I just felt so tired of hurting. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Looking back, I wish I hadn't had the surgery. Sure, the pain from the tumors was ridiculous and in a few days it could've killed me. But I started chemo two weeks later, and the tumors vanished almost instantly. This procedure is a very difficult one to recover from, and I was no different. Had I known then what I know now, I would have rushed into chemo treatment and bypassed the surgery.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">But in the midst of suffering, we generally can't see that far ahead. I couldn't know at that time what I know now. So when we're in the valley, hemmed in by mountains on all sides, all we can do is keep walking. Not every step we take will be the best one. But still, we keep walking. By God's grace, He can use even our failures to make something beautiful. </span></span></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-46242938619883481122014-09-12T18:25:00.005-05:002014-09-12T18:25:51.723-05:00A Brief Update: September 2014<div>
I'm taking a break from telling the story of my battle with Leukemia. I'd like to let you know what's going on today. </div>
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The past 10 months have been pretty difficult for my family. But we've been blown away by the faithfulness of God manifested in our community. So I wanted to take a moment and thank you for traveling this journey with us. When you're hurt, or scared, or anxious, it makes a huge difference to know that others are standing with you, experiencing those same things. And we've felt that all along the way.<br />
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For those of you who have been walking this road with me, I want to let you know where things currently stand. So here goes...</div>
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Back in July, I finished my last of seven rounds of intensive chemotherapy in Houston. This was the same regimen I began back in November. I entered remission in December, after just one round of chemotherapy. But treating leukemia is difficult. Sending into remission is relatively easy; keeping it there is not. So the final six rounds are to "kick the cancer while it's down."<br />
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A bone marrow test in August showed that I am still in remission. There is no active cancer in my body. There is a very sensitive test they perform on my bone marrow called a "Real Time PCR" test. PCR stands for "polymerase chain reaction." They extract some marrow, and let it culture in a lab for a few days. If a certain protein is created, I have what is called "Minimal Residual Disease." In November, when I had active leukemia, this protein number would've been 100%. In December, it was 0.08%. In February, it was up to 0.19%. Then in May, 0.01%. Almost nothing. The goal was nothing.<br />
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This most recent PCR test showed the protein number to be 0.03%. So it isn't gone. Honestly, I was pretty bummed when I heard the news. This number means that I am probably more prone to relapse because that protein is present. It means that chemo wasn't completely successful to accomplish what we had hoped. This "minimal residual disease" does not necessarily mean my cancer will come back. But scientists have reason to believe that it means I am at an increased risk. This type of testing is all very new, and I'm fortunate to be a part of it.<br />
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Therefore, on Monday I'm beginning a new type of therapy. It's called "Maintenance Therapy," and it's basically a really light chemo dose still designed to chase down those last few cells that are creating the protein. I will be treated in Ruston, which is a blessing. A round is five days of treatment, an hour a day. I'll repeat that about every four weeks, up to 12 cycles. My doctors have told me that I will probably not notice any side effects. I'm hoping to work full time this year, which I'm really excited about.<br />
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Please continue to pray with me. I'm asking that God would completely heal me, that the protein number would be 0.00%. I'm trusting in His strength, in His wisdom, and in His goodness.<br />
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Also, please pray for Karen. I'm convinced that this journey has been much more difficult for her than it has been for me. She's an incredible wife, and an incredible mom. Pray for her strength and peace.<br />
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Finally, pray for our kids. I'm hoping that this whole ordeal is a tiny blip on the radar of their childhood memories. That they always remember a healthy dad who was present with them. May they see in their dad someone who lives by faith, and may that faith take root in their souls as well.<br />
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Feel free to use the comments section for any questions you may have. I'll do my best to answer what I can here. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-22226749466328332142014-07-20T12:42:00.003-05:002014-07-20T13:13:13.896-05:00The First Couple Days<i style="background-color: white; color: #666666; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This is the 9th of a series of posts chronicling Chris' battle with Acute Myeloid Leukemia.</span></i><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">The first night of sleep after finding out you have cancer is not a good one. Counting sheep apparently works better than counting scenarios. Friday morning arrived slowly, as I tried to digest the new reality of my world. <i>I have cancer</i>. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Life-shattering news aside, I really didn't sleep well. My back was aching, and I didn't know why. I walked into the kitchen and asked Karen to massage a knot. She started to, but then stopped abruptly. She didn't say anything at first, and lifted up my shirt to inspect more carefully. "This isn't knot," she said. "It's a lump." </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I ran to a mirror, and there it was. On the right side of my back, just below my rib cage, it looked as though someone had surgically implanted a racquetball under my skin. My heart sank. Karen and I told each other that it could be anything, but I knew what it was. I had no idea what was happening inside my body, and I had no control over it. Looking back, it's still amazing to me that I never noticed the lump before I found out I had cancer. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">On the bright side, I already had an appointment scheduled Friday morning with an oncologist. <i>What are the odds?!</i> Karen and I made the same drive to the clinic that we had made one week earlier, this time under very different circumstances. We checked in at Dr. Byrnes' office, and he walked us down the hall to meet the oncologist, Dr. Osafo. Originally from Ghana, Dr. Osafo has become somewhat of a fixture in Ruston, cycling and saving lives. He is a man with no enemies. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I love Dr. Osafo. There haven't been many times in my adult life when I was truly terrified; this was one of them. But he gave me and Karen a sense of confidence and calm, to know that there are actually people in the world who could help me. I had been living in a cloud of worry and sadness for the past 18 hours, but Dr. Osafo was upbeat and happy. It's amazing what simple kindness can do for someone in need. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Dr. Osafo told us we needed to do a bone marrow biopsy. This guy had my trust, so it didn't seem like a huge deal when he turned me up on my side and shoved a huge needle to the center of my hip bone. He said he extracted some marrow from my hip, but it felt like it came from my toes. That marrow would help us nail down a diagnosis. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">The bone marrow results would come in on Monday, and Dr. Osafo asked us to come back then to move toward a treatment plan. Before we left, I asked, "Dr. Osafo, I don't know anything about cancer. How serious is this?" He answered, "We have to assume it's very serious." </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">That weekend happened to be Louisiana Tech Homecoming. My brother Patrick's family were coming in town for the festivities, which turned out to be a huge blessing. Rather than sit around and worry all weekend, I would be watching my kids play with their cousins, attending a football game, laughing, and being with family. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">The football game was cloudy and cool. I sat in the cold metal stands, feeling detached from the noise and activity around me. I thought about how much time I had spent at that stadium. Sitting in section DD, Row 35 with my mom as a little boy. (Dad was always working at football games.) Through those awkward adolescent years, I'd run to the far corners of the bleachers and sit with friends, far away from the shackles of authority and oversight. In college I switched to the East Side, where we'd stand through the whole game and scream our heads off. Now we had progressed back to the Old People Side, as Karen and I tried to wrangle kids of our own. I wondered if this would be the last season of Tech football I'd see. (If you watched last season, you know how great a tragedy that would be.) The thoughts, and the breeze, brought a chill to my core. The shivering accentuated the sharp pain in my back, which was never far from my mind. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">After the game, we took Jude and Owen down to the field - a treat they only get at these rare daytime games. They love seeing the turf up close, standing on the logo, looking back up into the seats, dreaming. I had sat for three hours looking at the life through my eyes. It was good for me to see it through theirs. We threw the ball, chased each other, fell down...</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">What's life for if not for living?</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-45362067402250963702014-07-12T13:15:00.000-05:002014-07-12T13:15:20.901-05:00Finding Out<i>This is the 8th of a series of posts chronicling Chris' battle with Acute Myeloid Leukemia.</i><br />
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<b>Thursday, October 10</b><br />
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"Hello?"<br />
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"Chris, it's Dr. Byrnes."<br />
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"Hi, Dr. Byrnes. Thanks for calling."<br />
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"We finally got your biopsy results in from the reference lab. Again, I'm sorry it took so long. I don't have very good news. Basically what we know is that it's some form of cancer. The lab identified your tissue as either a <i>lymphoma</i> or a <i>myeloid sarcoma</i>, but we'll need to run some tests to know exactly what type of cancer we're dealing with. I need you to come to my office tomorrow morning at 8am, and I'll walk you down to meet the oncologist, Dr. Osafo. We'll start answering questions tomorrow."<br />
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"Ok, thanks for your help, Dr. Byrnes."<br />
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"Bye."<br />
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I hung up the phone, and just sat there. It's funny the things you remember in those moments. I was on the white recliner in my living room. It was a bright afternoon, and the sunlight flooded in through the blinds and bathed the room in light. I remember the peaceful whirring of the ceiling fan over my head. <i>I have cancer</i>. For the next few days, that was the thought that I simply couldn't shake from my mind. <i>Is this real life</i>? I had a thousand questions, but honestly, I didn't really feel like doing much research on the subject. <i>I have cancer</i>.<br />
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<i>I should tell somebody</i>. News this big isn't something you should keep to yourself. Karen was gone picking the boys up from preschool; besides, I wanted to tell her face to face. So I called my brother and told him. Then I called my dad. I told them what I knew, which wasn't much. I don't remember many specifics of those conversations. I was in shock.<br />
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A few minutes later, I heard the garage door opening. How do you tell this kind of thing to your wife? This new reality was going to impact her life more than it would my own. I met her in the garage as she pulled the car in. She stepped out, and knew in an instant that something had happened. The kids were still strapped into their seats.<br />
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"The doctor called."<br />
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"And?"<br />
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"It's cancer."<br />
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I think we hugged for a minute. It's a really significant thing, but one that is easy to overlook: whatever we were walking into, we would walk into together. That changes everything. We pulled the three kids out of the car, unpacking them into this new reality of our lives. Karen tried to tell the kids that we just found out that Daddy is really sick, and the next phase of our lives would be different and challenging. They wanted a snack.<br />
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I wanted to tell the guys at church. So I drove to the office and asked all the staff guys who were there if I could talk to them for a minute. I can't remember who all was there. I think Skin, Len, Jeremy, Jason, and Sutton were there. Maybe Slate.<br />
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"Well, it's cancer."<br />
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I watched as the news sunk in. Me having cancer would impact these guys nearly as much as it would my own family. I was transitioning into an expanded leadership role at church. Sunday morning was my primary area of leadership. I was going to preach half the time, and lead worship half the time. I would mentor Sutton as he discerned the next steps for his life. These guys weren't thinking about how my absence would impact their plans, but I was. I thought about how thankful I was to have a group around me as strong as this one.<br />
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Skin was the first guy to say something. He's the best pastor I've ever known, in the sense that when you're walking through something, you really feel that he's <i>with</i> you. All he said was, "We're all terminal." Three words. I'm not even sure why those words comforted me. Looking back, they don't seem all that profound, or all that comforting. But in that moment, he took the fear I was dealing with and reminded me that we'd all face it at some point. I wasn't isolated. I wasn't alone. I was just like everyone else. It was a powerful thing for me. We prayed together and then I went home.<br />
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That night I had a phone conversation with my primary care doctor. Jake is a friend as well as a physician. So when he heard the news, he gave me a call. He knew I was scared, and he knew that there weren't many questions that had answers. He gave me some clarity about lymphomas vs. sarcomas. I asked him which one I'd rather have, and he said, "I think you'd prefer a lymphoma." Uh oh.<br />
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"Am I looking at chemotherapy?" I asked.<br />
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"Probably, but your oncologist can tell you for sure."<br />
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"The next phase of my life is going to be pretty difficult, isn't it?"<br />
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"I would think so. I'm here if you need anything."<br />
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"Thanks Jake."<br />
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I went to bed, full head and heavy heart. I stirred most of the night. Each time I woke up, there was an optimism, a sense of relief that maybe this nightmare had ended. Then the fog would clear and I'd realize this is my life. <i>I have cancer</i>.<br />
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About halfway through the night, I began to be bothered by an aching in the right side of my back. Great. I have cancer, <i>and</i> I slept funny and have a sore back. Insult to injury.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-4295924134591103562014-06-12T20:58:00.002-05:002014-06-12T21:37:23.737-05:00Testing. Waiting.<i style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">This is the 7th of a series of posts chronicling Chris' battle with Acute Myeloid Leukemia</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><b>Tuesday, October 8 - Wednesday, October 9</b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><b><i>North Louisiana Medical Center</i></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">After the tumultuous week I had experienced, I felt that being hospitalized was a vacation. I wasn't experiencing any pain (thanks to Dilaudid, that nectar of the gods), I was sleeping like a baby, and people were actually trying to find out what was wrong with me.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">First thing Tuesday morning, I met my surgeon for the first time - Dr. Byrnes. I was a bit confused as to why I needed a surgeon, but I decided to roll with it. He explained to me and Karen that in addition to the inflamed lymph nodes that were found on my CT Scan, there was also a small spot on my intestines. Getting a biopsy of that spot would help us nail down exactly what it was we were dealing with. He would put me to sleep and perform a biopsy of the top end of my small intestine. Essentially, just stick a camera down my throat and peek around. Fine by me. It was the easiest surgical procedure I've ever endured. Non-invasive, no side affects or pain. Plus I had Dilaudid anyway. Unfortunately, he couldn't get deep enough to find the spot in question. On to Plan B.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Cue ominous music</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Plan B was a colonoscopy on Wednesday morning. Dr. Byrnes felt that our best chance of obtaining a biopsy of the spot was to try an "alternate" route. So late Tuesday afternoon, the sweetest little nurse in the world brought in two liter-sized bottles of <a href="https://screen.yahoo.com/crystal-gravy-000000611.html" target="_blank">crystal gravy</a>. In her tender voice, she made clear that I had two hours to drink these two thick, salty beverages. "Two hours?" I thought to myself. "That's easy." </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">It wasn't easy. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I got the first one down relatively quickly. The nurse would peek her head in periodically and ask, "Everything okay?" Each time, I expressed my concern that this wasn't going to work. Each time, she chuckled and said, "Oh it'll work." Slowly, but surely, I knocked back the second bottle - with time to spare. And then I waited, and waited. "I don't think it's doing anything," I'd say. "Oh it'll work," the nurse would respond.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">It worked. Again and again it worked. All night long it worked. By the time the nurses came on Wednesday morning to wheel me back into surgery, I felt like a pitiful marathon runner who finishes last place at the Olympics, lumbering into the stadium under the low murmur from the straggle of fans still hanging around. Completely exhausted, devoid of energy, fluid, or passion. "Somebody inject some drugs into my body that will put me to sleep and help me escape this misery!" </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Selah</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Then I woke up. I felt rested. No pain. My life, and my bowels, were a clean slate. The doctor had explained to Karen that he was able to obtain a tiny sample from the spot on my intestine, and that he had sent it off to the lab for identification. We were to return to his office on Friday morning to find out the results. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Then we went home. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">In a way, we felt like our adventure was over. My pain was gone. We ate dinner that night. No pain. Had God healed me? That was our prayer. I couldn't know it at the time, but cancer was still growing inside my abdomen at a very rapid rate. But since there were no obstructions left in my digestive tract, I felt nothing.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><b>Friday, October 11</b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">On Friday morning, Karen and I drove to the clinic and rode the elevator upstairs in relative silence, both sensing that we were about to learn something really important. We waited for a little bit before seeing the doctor. When he came into the room, he explained that the lab had sent my biopsy to a "reference lab," which is standard practice when a particular tissue is difficult to classify. Unfortunately, we wouldn't learn the results until early next week. </span><i style="line-height: 18px;">Try sleeping on that</i><span style="line-height: 18px;">. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Karen and I had a hundred questions. Why would they send our tissue away? What does our lab <i>think</i> it is? Certainly if it was cancer, they'd be like, "It's cancer." So the fact that they aren't telling us is probably a good thing. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">The next week began in relative normalcy. We tried to live our normal lives, even with the unknown test results looming over us at all times. I went to work. I played with the kids. I ate meals. No pain. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Every day brought a bit more frustration that we hadn't received test results, but also more confidence that nothing was wrong with me. By Thursday I was almost convinced of this fact. The doctor's call would just confirm it. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><b>Thursday, October 17</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">On Thursday, I went to lunch with Jason Howell and Sutton Davison at Chili's. I was feeling completely healthy by this point, and enjoying every moment of it. Toward the end of the meal, however, I began to sense a familiar uneasiness in my lower abdomen. </span><i style="line-height: 18px;">Is that the same feeling I had two weeks ago? </i><span style="line-height: 18px;">I wasn't sure. But as the pain steadily increased, a cloud of dread began to descend over me. I finished the meal quietly, not wanting to burden the guys with my worst fears. I didn't want to go back to work, so I decided to go home and rest to see if the pain would pass.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I got home to a quiet house. Karen and Charlotte were out to lunch. The boys were at school. I laid on the couch and listened to the soft hum of the ceiling fan over my head. I willed its gentle breeze to calm me down, but to no avail. I was scared, again. Helpless. <i>Why hasn't the doctor called?! It's been eight days! Did they send my tissue to Sydney by boat?</i> <i>Or Carrier Pigeon?! </i>As these thoughts passed through my head, I drifted to sleep.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I woke up to my cell phone ringing. It was my doctor. </span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-75068765027552236772014-06-11T20:54:00.001-05:002014-06-13T10:26:52.065-05:00A Case of the Mondays<i>This is the 6th of a series of posts chronicling Chris' battle with Acute Myeloid Leukemia</i>.<br />
<br />
MONDAY, OCTOBER 7<br />
<br />
The pain I experienced throughout that Sunday night was the most excruciating of my life. I lay in bed, just waiting for daylight and the doctor's appointment I had that morning. I anxiously watched the sky turn - black... gray... pink... orange... blue - the light brought some comfort, some hope that I would finally talk with someone who could help me.<br />
<br />
Karen called the doctor's office at 8 and told them that I couldn't wait until my 10:00 appointment. They said I could go ahead and head in. We asked my mom to come stay with the kids (nearby grandparents are a blessing of the greatest kind), and Karen and I sped to the clinic. The poor nursing staff could tell that I was terribly uncomfortable, so they were able to get me into a room within a matter of minutes. My doctor walked in and started asking questions. My pain was blinding, and seeing as how I can't focus on two things at once completely healthy, I was hopeless to be of any help. I interrupted him mid-sentence: "Can I get a shot or something?" Our nurse came in with a wonderful syringe and stuck it in my buttocks. Sweet, blissful relief began to follow. Oh, the blessings of pharmaceutical drugs.<br />
<br />
As the pain wore off, I began to think and speak more clearly. As foolish as it sounds, I reverted back to my initial hypothesis that I had a stomach ulcer. Dr. Wood wanted to schedule me for a CT Scan that afternoon, but for now I should only eat the BRAT diet - Bananas, Rice, Apples, Toast - which is specially formulated to be easy on the stomach, and also disgusting. So me and Karen went home. And I ate a banana and a piece of toast. <i>What was I thinking?! </i>I knew without doubt that I didn't have a stomach ulcer. But I was willing myself to not be very sick. So we ate, just the two of us, at our kitchen table. Then I crawled into bed and fell into a deep, blissful sleep - the first time in 4 days that I slept without pain.<br />
<br />
Until about 3pm. I guess that's when my shot was scheduled to wear off. It did. It wore off with great vengeance and furious anger. We called our doctor and asked about the status of the CT Scan, only to learn they were having trouble pre-approving me for insurance. Karen told them that she had been pre-approved to give someone a fist to the throat.* Our doctor told us to go to the ER. That was the only way for us to get a CT Scan before Tuesday morning.<br />
<br />
At about 4PM, we strolled into a busy ER waiting room, surrounded by lots of other hurting people. I had been drinking lots of fluids, because I had heard that was really good for stomach ulcers. That just kept adding to my pain. I went into the bathroom and tried to make myself throw up, thinking maybe that would ease the pain. I could only muster a couple of dry heaves. When I went back to the waiting room, everyone was staring at me. Karen told me I was really loud. Oops. I can honestly say it didn't matter to me at the time.<br />
<br />
They called me back and got me onto a bed. The nurse could tell I was dehydrated and in severe pain. She got an IV started, and then brought in a little syringe and said, "This is a pretty potent pain medication. It's called Dilaudid. I'm going to dilute it with some saline before I give it to you, because it packs a pretty good punch." What happened next ranks among the greatest sensations I've ever experienced. I'll do my best to describe it in a way that you can share in my joy of remembrance:<br />
<br />
If I had closed my eyes, I would've imagined that the nurse had brought in a large sledgehammer, which she raised high above my bed and smashed down into my chest. This brought shock - I felt pressed down on my mattress with great force, and I couldn't breathe. But then - the sledgehammer was warm, even to my heart. And that warmth began to permeate my body, bringing its peace to all my tissues and fibers.<br />
<br />
That kind of comfort can only come after a similar level of pain. This gives me some idea what Tim Keller means when he says that heaven will be more glorious because of the suffering of earth.<br />
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At that point, I was completely comfortable and relaxed. I didn't care what they did to me. I got a chest Xray and the CT Scan. The doctor came in and told me that they needed to admit me to the hospital for some testing. I tested positive for H Pylori, which is a bacteria that lives in the stomach but that can become an infection if it is too present. As the doctor rambled on, I sort of drifted into thinking, "Well, that's it then. H Pylori. Give me my medicine and we'll get back on with life." But as he kept talking, I heard him say something about how my lymph nodes were all inflamed, which could mean a bunch of things, but one possibility was cancer.<br />
<br />
*Record scratch*<br />
<br />
Cancer? CANCER?! Nah. Not me. <i>Had I kissed someone who had cancer? </i>That's a crazy, worst-case scenario type thing. It's H Pylori.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkw8M64z1sn0pEtmWLD0g5fbV1i4rNMlu_B7__MtSM5bIGufSBNgRgAjBSEyJZR78VFEl6FWYRXRXzFrI9qF7kXce8FsG6I7OyCPUba1ASmpT4NAohLPDOuok9h7uIlkOQMLtKRgm947g/s1600/hospitalhallway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkw8M64z1sn0pEtmWLD0g5fbV1i4rNMlu_B7__MtSM5bIGufSBNgRgAjBSEyJZR78VFEl6FWYRXRXzFrI9qF7kXce8FsG6I7OyCPUba1ASmpT4NAohLPDOuok9h7uIlkOQMLtKRgm947g/s1600/hospitalhallway.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><i><br /></i>
As they wheeled my bed down the hall, I looked at Karen walking next to me. What an incredible woman. What a great wife. There is absolutely no one else I'd rather have next to me in that moment. I was probably too shocked or drugged to understand the gravity of our situation. But I don't think she was.<br />
<br />
My gurney squeaked along the quiet, fluorescent corridor. Down the rabbit hole.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Karen didn't say that</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-72859517857177463122014-04-23T11:58:00.002-05:002014-04-23T23:12:39.948-05:00Sunday: Escalation (or Descent)<i>This is the 5th of a series of posts chronicling Chris' battle with Acute Myeloid Leukemia</i>.<br />
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SUNDAY, OCTOBER 6<br />
<br />
From Wednesday to Saturday, my stomach pain had been more of a nuisance than anything else. But on Sunday, October 6, that changed. At that point, I still believed I had a stomach ulcer - or something on that level of seriousness. Something that would soon pass. I woke up that morning, and the pain was still there, seemingly more noticeable and present with each passing hour.<br />
<br />
Sundays are a whirlwind for me as Worship Pastor at The Bridge. We've got three worship services at two campuses. My sidekick, Sutton Davison, had scheduled a trip to Nashville that weekend, so I had double-duty responsibility that morning. <i>Funny how we get more busy at the worst times, isn't it?</i> I headed to the North Campus first to help The Fryers get ready to lead worship. I remember having to plug in a mic cable under a riser, and as I knelt down my stomach pain became a bit nauseating. I thought to myself, "Am I crazy for trying to do all this today?" But I really felt I had no other option. "I'll worry about my health this afternoon."<br />
<br />
I then drove to our Downtown Campus, where we had practice at 9. This was the first time I had sung since the pain started, and it wasn't pleasant. Pushing from my diaphragm and depriving myself of oxygen really aggravated the issue. Rather than the hollow ache I'd been feeling, my pain morphed toward severe heartburn. I thought there was a pretty good chance I'd vomit on stage right in front of the congregation. I've been embarrassed publicly before, but never quite at that level.<br />
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We had about an hour between rehearsal and the worship service, and I did something I'd never done before: I went home. I told myself I needed some Pepto for my heartburn, but I really just didn't want to have to talk to people, because I could no longer focus on anything but my pain. I did take some Pepto at the house - remember, this was all for a stomach ulcer. (It wasn't until later I learned that Pepto Bismol is really bad for stomach ulcers. Oops. Didn't matter anyway, 'cause I didn't have no stomach ulcer.)<br />
<br />
I was able to get through the worship service without major incident. The heartburn was extremely distracting, and I silently burped between most every line of most every song. Praise the Lord, I didn't vomit on stage, although that would've been extremely rock-n-roll. We picked up Cane's Chicken for lunch. <i>What was I thinking?!</i><br />
<br />
Sunday afternoons are generally a great time of decompression and relaxation for me and my family. But this particular Sunday, Karen and I were going to an Ice Cream Social at church for kid's ministry volunteers. <i>Funny how we get more busy at the worst times, isn't it?</i> I probably didn't need to go anywhere that Sunday, but I certainly didn't need to be eating a wonderfully delicious and unhealthy Ice Cream Sundae. That really put the proverbial cherry on top of a lot of other bad decisions I'd made that week (pun intended).<br />
<br />
Needless to say, I wasn't feeling any better when we left the church late that afternoon. One of our best friends, Emery Pendergrass, told Karen she had potato soup on the stove and invited us over. I thought, <i>that's probably exactly what I need. Something easy on my stomach like potato soup</i>. We took the kids to their house and I ate the soup - it was delicious. After dinner, I sat on their couch, satisfied, wondering if finally my stomach would settle. Within ten minutes the pain intensified significantly, to the point that I couldn't focus on anything else, or even sit still. We had to go home.<br />
<br />
I just wanted to sleep - for days if necessary - until the pain went away. Turns out sleep would elude me that Sunday night. I lay down in bed, and began experiencing pain like I've never experienced in my life. The dull ache was constant - enough to keep my awake. But every minute or two, there would be a contraction. Yes, that's what I said, a contraction. It would spike to the point that I thought my bowels would explode, and then subside back to the dull ache. That night, more than any other time in my life, I wasn't scared to die. Death would've been a welcome relief from the misery. Blinding pain has a way of reorienting our priorities in ridiculous ways. That's why torture works.<br />
<br />
I learned some time later that cancer was growing in my small intestine and constricting my food from passing through. The pressure had built up and built up over the week - fried chicken, steak, junk food, ice cream, potato soup - and my muscles were actually doing the same thing that a woman's muscles do during labor. Except I don't have a uterus, or muscles that are supposed to miraculously expand. So I was experiencing the pains of childbirth with no child-birthing organs. It was a terrible thing.<br />
<br />
But I couldn't have known that yet. I lay in bed, hoping not to wake Karen, coming up with new theories in my mind. I doubted that a stomach ulcer would cause this type of cramping. But I'd watched Karen squirm through the unrelenting pain of about three different kidney stones.<i> </i>I felt like she looked in those terrible moments. I remembered sitting in clinic waiting rooms, helplessly watching Karen contort her body in those miserable chairs in a futile effort to find relief. I remembered her moaning and crying as that little rock tried to make its way through a passageway it had no business traveling down. It was like watching Voldemort perform the cruciatus curse on someone in a Harry Potter novel. That's what I felt like. <i>Maybe this is a kidney stone. I <u>hope</u> this is a kidney stone</i>.<br />
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Around midnight, the vomiting began. I didn't really mind. Anything was welcome because it brought the hope of relief. Vomiting is an amazing thing, isn't it? Our bodies are made to violently expel any substance that threatens its well-being. You use muscles that you don't know you have, and that you certainly can't control. It leaves you weak because of its intensity. My body was doing what my mind couldn't do, trying its best to thrust out whatever was attacking it. In a way, I was glad to vomit. I felt like I had stood idly by all week as this invisible enemy invaded my body. But throwing up was something - I was fighting back. That's what I wanted to do: fight back. But I couldn't because I had no idea who this enemy was. So I contented myself with throwing blind punches into the darkness, huddled alone over my cold toilet.<br />
<br />
Karen was not aware of my frequent trips into the bathroom. She needed her rest for what she was going to face over the next few weeks. As I groaned through the pain in bed, she turned over and looked at me. "Do I need to take you to the emergency room?" I was too tough: "No. I'll be okay," barely able to formulate sentences - stupid macho man.<br />
<br />
I had a doctor's appointment on Monday morning. I just needed to push through for a few more hours.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-43827612624468885472014-04-16T12:29:00.001-05:002014-04-16T12:32:15.717-05:00RSGC<i>This is the 4th of a series of posts chronicling Chris' battle with Acute Myeloid Leukemia</i>.<br />
<br />
A few years back, some friends of mine decided that we would faithfully meet two weekends a year to reconnect, encourage one another, and have fun. We cheekily dubbed this assemblage the <i>Refined Southern Gentlemen's Club</i>, assuming that it would draw images of well-groomed mustaches, cigars, and playing cards. It did not occur to us at the time that it sounded like the name of a white supremacist group. We also did not consider the common association people made with the term "gentlemen's club." However, the name stuck, and our little group became the RSGC.<br />
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The second biannual meeting of 2013 had been scheduled for October 4-5 at Lake Claiborne State Park near Homer, LA. I had seriously considered not attending because of my still hurting abdomen, but felt better about it after talking with my doctor.<br />
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<b>MOON'S GROCERY</b><br />
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On Friday night of our little get-togethers, we always try to find a fun place to eat dinner. We drove out to a remote gas station that serves huge ribeye steaks called Moon's Grocery. I drove my brand new Honda Fit. This was my first of many terrible decisions over the weekend, as I realized driving into the gravel parking lot that Seabass and the Fellas were going to find my little car very "cute."<br />
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If you've never been to Moon's, it's a wonderful experience. This was my inaugural visit, and I wasn't going to waste it just because I had an upset stomach. So I bypassed the 1-1/4" and 1-1/2" steaks and went straight for the 2-incher. As with most foolish decisions, this was really fun in the moment, with no thought given to the toll that this slab of muscle would take on my digestive system. We sat, eating until we couldn't move, and watched the Dodgers lose to the Cardinals in the postseason. I am a Dodger fan, so that stunk. But that night felt good. I was with friends having a great meal, experiencing an America that many people will never know about. I was thankful, even if I was miserable.<br />
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<b>WIFFLE BALL</b><br />
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I didn't sleep well that night. Shocking, I know. The next morning, we carried on our tradition of doing something semi-active by scheduling a Wiffle Ball Home Run Derby. It was a rainy weekend, and we found an open field somewhere near the lake. Our home run derby soon devolved into a game of "full-contact" mud wiffle ball. This would have been a terrible decision had I been completely healthy. But being sick, it was downright stupid. RSGC weekends aren't about making good, responsible decisions.<br />
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That afternoon, while the rest of the guys played a rousing 4-hour game of Risk, I slept. I would be awoken every few minutes by a new, sharper pain, but my exhaustion won out and I'd turn over and fall back asleep.<br />
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<b>THE PORCH</b><br />
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I woke up a few hours later. For the first time through this whole ordeal, I was getting scared. I couldn't lie to myself anymore and say it was just a passing stomachache. (Cancer was still nowhere on the radar.) I could no longer just shut it out of my mind with the force of my will. I wandered from the bedroom, through the living room, and out onto the screened-in porch. It was almost dark, and a light rain was falling. The sound of the rain in the trees and the nearby lake was peaceful. It was a stark and necessary contrast to the turmoil going on inside my body. <i>What was wrong with me? Why wasn't this pain going away? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket and put a song on called <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GMcJvUFEWhk" target="_blank">"Song of Solomon"</a> from a new Martin Smith album. I'm really not sure why I played it, but I'm glad I did. The haunting, repetitive melody wasn't his song at that moment, it was mine. <i>When I feel the cold of winter, and this cloak of sadness, I need You... All through the valleys, through the dark of night; here, You come running, to hold me till it's light.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I walked back inside, trying to act like everything was fine. I hung out with the guys for a while, ate something, packed up my things, and started for home.<br />
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<b>THE DRIVE HOME</b><br />
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The road from Lake Claiborne to Ruston is notoriously curvy. And it's dark and still at night. A dead calm. In fact, I didn't see another car for the entire 25 mile ride home. The car was quiet - I didn't play any music - just me and my thoughts. <i>Am I okay? Will I wake up tomorrow feeling fine, having worried about nothing? How sick am I?</i><br />
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A light fog began descending along the way. And then something really strange happened: I rounded a curve, and there was a guy walking down the road carrying a backpack. Needless to say, he startled me. This guy was in the middle of nowhere on a pitch black night, wandering down a remote, curvy highway alone. Just thinking back to it now spooks me out. But as I drove the rest of the way home, I thought about that guy. In a way, I identified with him. He was just a shadow - a hazy figure on a dark background, walking down a foggy road because there were no other options, unable to see what was ahead, but walking towards it nonetheless.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-82992544617163612682014-04-15T09:53:00.000-05:002014-04-16T12:13:34.293-05:00Something Ain't Right<i>This is the 3rd of a series of posts chronicling Chris' battle with Acute Myeloid Leukemia</i>.<br />
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We're stubborn creatures. It's funny how we can tell ourselves that everything is okay when we know it isn't. Don't judge me - you do it, too. We're so committed to our version of how life should play out that we will ourselves to shut out any reality that threatens it.<br />
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<b>SEPTEMBER 17</b><br />
<br />
In the early morning darkness of Tuesday, September 17, I grabbed a strawberry granola yogurt out of the fridge and quietly slipped out of my sleeping house for a leadership meeting at church. As we gathered at 5:30am to pray, I endured the usual jabs about why I had swapped out my regular sausage biscuit for a healthier alternative. <i>Just wanting to eat better.</i><br />
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About mid-morning, my stomach started to feel funny. <i>That's what happens when you eat healthy</i>, I joked to myself. I didn't know if I was nauseated, or sick, or if it was nothing. I of course assumed the latter. It was serious enough that I convinced my buddies to eat lunch at Zaxby's with me, where I ordered a chicken salad. I couldn't finish it, but it was refreshing and delicious. I felt better that afternoon.<br />
<br />
See? It was nothing.<br />
<br />
<b>OCTOBER 2: WEDNESDAY</b><br />
<br />
Two weeks later, sometime on a Wednesday, it came back. Just a subtle discomfort in the abdominal regions. It's difficult to explain the feeling. It wasn't hunger; I know what that feels like. It wasn't gas; I definitely know what that feels like. It was deeper than those things. A kind of pain you couldn't pinpoint. But I wasn't worried. Because, of course, it was nothing.<br />
<br />
It went away last time; it'll go away this time.<br />
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<b>OCTOBER 3: THURSDAY</b><br />
<br />
It had been a day and a night now. The pain was still there. I started mentioning my discomfort casually to friends. Jeremy said he figured it was a stomach ulcer. Those hurt really bad. I googled it, and sure enough, stomach ulcers hurt in the abdominal regions. My friend Jason gets stomach ulcers all the time, and my detective work included an interview:<br />
<br />
Me: "Jason, do stomach ulcers hurt really bad in your abdominal regions?"<br />
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Jason: "Yes."<br />
<br />
So that's what I had. Problem solved.<br />
<br />
My mind also made another connection. Our fridge had been on the blink. It took way longer for us to notice than it should have, so this is slightly embarrassing. We'd wake up to pools of water on the kitchen floor. (With toddlers running around, this isn't an uncommon occurrence). I realized that my blocks of cheese were "sweaty," and smellier than usual. (Still topped my wheat thins with 'em, though). Turns out Owen's little hobby of hanging from the refrigerator door handle had the effect of the door not shutting properly. So our food only cooled about half the time. We called Bill, the appliance guy, and he fixed us up. But there was a pretty good chance all that time spent eating spoiled food would make my stomach feel "not so normal." Two pretty good hypotheses, if you ask me.<br />
<br />
Just in case, I ate lunch at Zaxby's. Worked last time.<br />
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<b>OCTOBER 4: FRIDAY</b><br />
<br />
I was still hurting on Friday. Couldn't really tell if the pain was getting more severe, or if the prolonged dullness just made it worse. At any rate, I called my doctor.<br />
<br />
Me: "Doc, I'm going out of town this weekend. But I've had a weird stomach pain for the last couple days. Probably an ulcer. Should I be concerned?"<br />
<br />
Dr. Wood: "Probably not. But make an appointment to see me on Monday morning just so we can rule out anything serious."<br />
<br />
Me: "Okay. Thanks Doc."<br />
<br />
I then entered the thick, impenatrable medical darkness that is the weekend. Where the only place to get medical care is the Emergency Room. Scary stuff. Could I make it to the light of Monday? That would prove more difficult than I could have possibly imagined.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-18609045823849045802014-03-17T16:48:00.000-05:002014-04-24T11:23:46.604-05:00Prelude: Summer 2013<i>This is the 2nd of a series of posts chronicling Chris' battle with Acute Myeloid Leukemia</i>.<br />
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The summer of 2013 was perhaps the best of my life. It was the first summer since 2001 that I hadn't either spent on the road leading worship or in a seminary classroom. Charlotte had been born the previous January, and our boys - then two and four - were a blast. I was beginning a transition at church from being a long-time worship pastor to being a primary member of our teaching team on Sundays. All these factors contributed to a great sense of alignment and freedom for me and Karen.<br />
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The highlight of the summer, though, was a trip that I took with my dad and brother. Patrick and I had talked for years about going on a baseball road trip with Dad, and this was the first summer that we actually had the opportunity. So back in February, we planned the trip, figuring out which teams were in town on what days, how we would travel, and where we would stay. </div>
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On the morning of July 23, the three of us woke up before dawn in Dallas, ready to board a plane to Boston. Over the next ten days, we would see games at Fenway Park, Citi Field (Mets), Yankee Stadium, Nationals Park (Washington, D.C.), Camden Yards (Baltimore), Citizens Bank Park (Philadelphia), PNC Park (Pittsburgh), and Progressive Field (Cleveland). It was the Quintessential American Vacation.</div>
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But something happened that we couldn't have planned on. As we arrived at Love Field in Dallas and were standing in the security line, Patrick commented that he must've slept funny, because his "midsection" was feeling a bit tender. Being the older brother that I am, I shrugged it off as no big deal and figured he was just being a baby. But as the day went on, he got more and more uncomfortable - which I attributed to him sitting still on a cramped airplane for 6 hours. Perfectly logical explanation!</div>
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We arrived in Boston and checked into our hotel. And then Patrick, who was miserable by now, located an urgent care facility in the area and went to seek treatment. He met me and dad during the third inning of the ballgame, without much relief. </div>
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At about two in the morning, Patrick woke us up and was in terrible pain. He and dad got a cab to Beth Israel hospital (the same place that the Boston Bomber had been held that spring), and he spent the rest of the night in the ER. He was given pain meds and had an ultrasound done. The results were inconclusive, but he was advised to go see an oncologist when he arrived back home. </div>
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I spent the rest of that day pushing Patrick around the brick sidewalks of Old Boston in a rented wheelchair. Best workout of 2013 for me. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidBnpapE23ymy6seSS0QlI2AWF9bAyS5EGG8VcjT6kcO1YcGi-4rqtXcbHAuottrrEwvFu6Ci2bn9y8JMFsvS5_LfisJeZJJyMhkaGzAS8VAffgufp_QBBISMRjdNyThjMTFnSPSZfQWA/s1600/IMG_1432.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidBnpapE23ymy6seSS0QlI2AWF9bAyS5EGG8VcjT6kcO1YcGi-4rqtXcbHAuottrrEwvFu6Ci2bn9y8JMFsvS5_LfisJeZJJyMhkaGzAS8VAffgufp_QBBISMRjdNyThjMTFnSPSZfQWA/s1600/IMG_1432.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad, Patrick, and Wheelchair at the site of the Boston Massacre. </td></tr>
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When we got home from the trip, we were absolutely exhausted. But we had a sense that we had just been a part of something incredible. For two boys to share that with their dad - we couldn't really put it into words - it was just special.</div>
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Patrick went to the doctor, mostly as a formality, because by that time he was feeling much better. But on August 8, he got the word that his pain was the result of testicular cancer. He called and told me, and I felt like I had gotten punched in the gut. No one in my immediate family - or distant family for that matter - had ever gotten cancer. Did that happen to people like us? <i>Normal*</i> people? Up until that point, I didn't really think so.</div>
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That night, I led worship for a missionary send-off service at church. The words of <a href="http://grooveshark.com/s/God+I+Look+To+You/3DnmPB?src=5" target="_blank">this song</a> took on deeper meaning for me as they gave language to my soul to express to God what I needed to say. </div>
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<i>God, I look to You, I won't be overwhelmed,<br />Give me vision to see things like You do.<br />God, I look to You, You're where my help comes from,<br />Give me wisdom, You know just what to do.</i></blockquote>
Patrick's cancer crises proved to be relatively minor: he had a surgical procedure to remove the tumor, and thankfully nothing had spread. But I remember the days of feeling nauseous, wondering where that road would lead. And I learned from my brother's experience that normal people get cancer. Young husbands and fathers get cancer. The glass bubble of my naivety had been shattered.<br />
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I believe God used that terrible news to prepare me for what would come my way just two months later.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimUByxypnCaUW_MnIRHKLdd3iKfO5v07RPaaVXJYIMS-9SKiaCPnZRp6fQxcpvILb4Rd8KUxfEb2WFNi4SOLd_Q_HMuTeP1hEt9PY0f415gWw-DbrNv4GVptLPZQTXaQbRtr9vN4_8BTw/s1600/IMG_1477.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimUByxypnCaUW_MnIRHKLdd3iKfO5v07RPaaVXJYIMS-9SKiaCPnZRp6fQxcpvILb4Rd8KUxfEb2WFNi4SOLd_Q_HMuTeP1hEt9PY0f415gWw-DbrNv4GVptLPZQTXaQbRtr9vN4_8BTw/s1600/IMG_1477.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yankee Stadium</td></tr>
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*<i>Editor's Note: Upon reflection, I am definitely not normal. </i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-17063134664143286502014-03-16T11:43:00.001-05:002014-03-17T17:45:01.051-05:00Telling My Story<i>This is the 1st of a series of posts chronicling Chris' battle with Acute Myeloid Leukemia</i>.<br />
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I've been battling cancer for the past five months.<br />
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Throughout that time, I've been surrounded by hundreds of people who have prayed for me, served our family, and shared our burden. But I haven't really shared my story publicly.</div>
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As a result, there's a ton of ambiguity about what's actually going on with me. Some people see me around town and wonder if I'm knocking on death's door. Others assume that everything must be fine, and my cancer is a thing of the past. The truth is somewhere in between.</div>
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I'm going to use this space to tell the story of my battle with cancer. I don't know the ending yet. Hopefully we can find out together. But in the meantime, I need to share my story. Partly, I need to do this for myself. We can walk through seasons of darkness and never turn back and process what we've learned, or how we've changed. I hope to do that here. I also hope that in telling my story, I can somehow encourage others who are suffering and asking all the questions that come with it. </div>
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Here's what I know: </div>
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<b>God is sovereign</b>. Period. No qualifications or caveats. </div>
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<b>God is good</b>. Infinitely good. The standard and source for all other goodness. </div>
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If I have cancer? God is sovereign, and God is good. If I die from this? God is sovereign, and God is good. These were guiding principles in my life before I had cancer, and they've continued to be anchor points for my soul throughout this season. </div>
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Feel free to read and follow these posts, or to share them with anyone you think needs it. Thanks for walking this journey with me.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-76193547837714444412012-04-10T13:52:00.000-05:002012-04-10T13:52:13.558-05:00Demonstrating WorshipI preached a sermon last week about Jesus "demonstrating" for his disciples. He didn't call his closest followers to anything that he didn't show in his own life. And what he called them to wasn't easy - <i>give up everything for Christ's sake</i>. But he actually lived it, and as they watched him, they eventually caught on. Everything Jesus did - his prayer life, his dependence on the Scriptures, his interaction with people who were far from God, his compassion for the hurting, his humility - all of these things were object lessons for the 12 men that Jesus was investing in.<br />
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As I interacted with that truth, this leadership principle emerged for me:<br />
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THE THINGS THAT YOU DEMONSTRATE WITH YOUR OWN LIFE WILL BE THE THINGS THAT ARE PRODUCED IN THE LIVES OF THE PEOPLE YOU INFLUENCE.<br />
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Everyone demonstrates. Therefore, everyone leads in some way. Right now the patterns that you follow, the way you spend your time and money, the things that are important to you, are all influencing someone else. At times, this is a terribly unsettling idea. At other times, it can be the lone source of hope that God is working through you.<br />
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Leading worship can be a really difficult role. Every worship leader at times feels like he or she is singing time-filler songs in front of a disinterested crowd of blank stares. You can imagine, that's not a great feeling. It could be a crowd of clueless 7th graders who are mildly sedated by the chemical reaction of Axe body spray and hormones. It could be a crowd of seemingly responsible adults who are simply too bothered by life to care. Or a thousand points in between.<br />
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There are different ways that worship leaders have dealt with the tension of these moments. Sometimes we disengage. Essentially, this is the same as quitting. We just say, "Well, if they aren't engaged, then I don't need to either." So we unplug. We finish our obligatory song set and then leave the stage, knowing that our hearts left three songs earlier. At other times worship leaders can try and bully the congregation into worship. "...If I can just coerce them into raising their hands..." Or maybe we just chastise them for caring so little about the greatness of God.<br />
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Whatever our coping mechanism looks like, we all have a tendency as worship leaders to assume that a disengaged congregation is <i>our</i> problem, so <i>I </i>have to fix it. But God has never placed that burden on us. As a worship leader, there is only one heart in attendance that I have any control over, and it is my own. So on a leadership level, one of the greatest responsibilities a worship leader has is to <i>demonstrate</i> what worship looks like. Not on a musical level, or what physical posture you take, but on a heart level. What does it look like when someone's heart is captivated by the beauty of God? Of course, this doesn't mean that our worship is a show... people can immediately see through the facade if you're worshiping to "be noticed." But if we follow Jesus' model of leadership, the things that we demonstrate will eventually rub off on the people we influence.<br />
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Before tempos, pitch, transitions, or eloquence, the one great responsibility of worship leaders is this: <i>am I worshiping?</i> If the answer is no, then you have no hope of leading others to worship. If the answer is yes, then you can take heart. The evidence may be minuscule, and the progress imperceptible, but if you are worshiping, then others <i>will</i> follow.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-64997133284163059132011-12-14T10:54:00.001-06:002011-12-14T10:54:36.008-06:00Owen is a year old. Wow.We celebrated Owen's birthday last night with some friends and family. I make a video for our kids' birthdays and it's always fun to see how much changes in a year. As I was looking through pics and video from Owen's first year, these Coldplay songs really captured how I felt. Life always comes with a mix of happiness and sorrow, as great moments are fleeting and you want to "slow it down."<br />
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What a blessing.</div>
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<embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/10150442763896633" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="224"></embed></object>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-6755372321149881032011-11-29T08:41:00.001-06:002011-11-29T11:38:30.071-06:00The First Things To GoWell, it's obviously been a long time since I've posted. The last couple months have been some of the most overwhelming that I've had in my life. Those who know me are probably aware that on September 25, my church (Crossroads) voted to strategically merge with another church in Ruston (Christ Community Church), a decision that really excites me about God's work in my hometown. For me personally, that meant having the congregation I lead in worship double in size overnight, a congregation that knows neither me nor my music. The first couple months of the merged church (The Bridge Community Church) have been exciting, challenging, and exhausting.<br />
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One of the many struggles I have is anxiety. I can become overwhelmed and I spend my time trying to gain control of situations that are simply out of my control. In the words of the SNL spoof of the late Harry Carey, I guess I'm just a worrier. (<a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/281924/saturday-night-live-space-the-infinite-frontier" target="_blank">That's why my friends call me Whiskers.</a>) So as great at this church merger has been, it also means that there's way more for me to do than I actually have time or energy to do. So I've been spending more time at work, less time with the family... but more than anything I spend time feeling stressed out. I'll lay in bed at night and make lists of things that I need to get done, or freak out over things I haven't done. I'm forgetting to do some things that have been a normal part of my job for the last nine years.<br />
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Thing is, we aren't made to be overwhelmed. It's an extremely prideful thing to think that we can manage everything in life, or keep it under our control. Part of being a follower of Christ means that we give Him control of everything we are: our energy, our priorities, our time, etc. But the fact remains, we don't always do that really well. And when I'm stressed, there are some important things in my life that get pushed out of the way. Here are a few of the most glaring:<br />
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1. <b>Prayer</b>. It's sad to say, but personal prayer is the most important thing that gets left out when I'm overwhelmed. I heard that a famous person once said, "I'm too busy <i>not </i>to pray." (I'm sure I could figure out who said it, but that would require a google search and I'm just too busy right now.) Philippians 4:6-7 is appropriate: "Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."That's a command and a promise. Command: Don't worry. Instead take your issues to God. Promise: The peace of God will guard you. I could use some heavenly peace right now. Maybe I should pray.<br />
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2. <b>Strategic thought</b>. This is the reason I haven't blogged or journaled lately. I had a friend tell me once that the difference between "normal people" and "highly effective people" is the amount of time they spend thinking. So my friend would try to spend a few minutes every day to shut his office door and just think about life. I haven't done anything like that lately. It would be great for me to ask myself some questions. What's good about my life right now? What isn't good? What can I change? Am I happy? Is my family happy? Where am I going? Where do I need to be going?<br />
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3. <b>Exercise</b>. I told Karen the other day, "It's been months since I did anything recreational." I love golf, but haven't played in months. I feel better when I run, but have run once in like three months. I started 2011 by doing push-ups and sit-ups every day. (100/day, adding 25 every week). I got huge, the buffest I've ever been. Haven't done a push-up since March. There are certain times that I try to eat heatlhier. Those of you who know me are laughing right now, because I love El Jarrito and Captain D's. And I've been eating a lot of chimichangas lately. (I eat because I'm busy and I'm busy because I eat.) Wade Burnett told me yesterday that I looked pregnant. I almost exclusively drink soft drinks. The only time I drink water is on Sundays, and that's only so I don't get hoarse singing. I could go on, but I don't want you to know how lazy and undisciplined I am... too late?<br />
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In short, anxiety has led me to being spiritually, mentally, and physically unhealthy. So now, not only am I anxious but I'm depressed as well. I'm a really nice person though.<br />
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Problem is, I keep waiting for a time when I can get a handle on life. I figure once that happens I'll be able to get myself healthy. How whack is that?! Jesus was pretty clear, "Come to me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." Not, "Work real hard to get your stuff done, then you'll get yourself rest," but "Bring your burdens. Bring your worries. Bring your schedule. And in the middle of that whirlwind, you will find rest for your soul."<br />
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I'm weary. I'm heavy-laden. So I guess I qualify.<br />
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Do you? What are the first things to go for you?<br />
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</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-60696135920385277132011-09-16T09:59:00.000-05:002011-09-16T09:59:13.033-05:00New Blog Design?I have a designer friend named Jake Dugard who is extremely talented. My blog has needed lots of help, so I told Jake I'd buy him lunch if he helped me give my blog a facelift. He thought an image at the top of my blog would add a lot to the feel of the page.<br />
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He came in my office yesterday really excited about what he had come up with. The problem is, I don't really like it. Here's what he gave me:<br />
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How do you tell someone who is trying to help you "Thanks, but no thanks"?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-1DMwTQ1v3z5vSYCg0EkfQVqiFgcqN4VNGUy6nEepQZyNsocAbO-Y6lvTDFVni5-NAIGKswYjOhJ25DpzMJc4zJddEpdMiwalIZSQRVxy7QGfBl1M0P9TajyOuVwvaT9k_Gtb0hHNlq8/s1600/FromWhereIStand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-1DMwTQ1v3z5vSYCg0EkfQVqiFgcqN4VNGUy6nEepQZyNsocAbO-Y6lvTDFVni5-NAIGKswYjOhJ25DpzMJc4zJddEpdMiwalIZSQRVxy7QGfBl1M0P9TajyOuVwvaT9k_Gtb0hHNlq8/s640/FromWhereIStand.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-67252376080349867272011-08-08T15:31:00.000-05:002011-08-08T15:31:37.189-05:00The NOWLife is different with kids. (Shocking revelation, right?) Mornings used to be quick, groggy times to shower and leave for work. Karen would wake up first, and my mind would slowly slip into consciousness as I'd hear the shower water running from the bathroom. Then I'd get out of bed, shower, kiss her goodbye and leave.<br />
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But now, mornings are a treasure. Owen generally wakes us up way earlier than we'd like, but we get out of bed anyway. I make coffee. We wait for Jude to climb out of bed and tiptoe into the living room. We feed the kids breakfast. We play music and dance. We sit in the driveway and watch cars go by. What used to be a quick transitional period is now two hours of priceless family time.<br />
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For years now, the Today Show has been part of our mornings. Some days it's just on in the background, other days we actually watch it. This morning I watched a story that was particularly gripping, and I figured I'd share a few of my thoughts here. The news just came home of the largest single-day loss of American life in the war on terror when 30 US military personnel were killed in Afghanistan. Today, Matt Lauer interviewed the family of one of those fallen soldiers Aaron Vaughn, who was a Navy SEAL. As I listened to their story, I was really moved by how painful life can be. This guy was able to come home a month ago for the birth of his daughter - but then he immediately left again to join his team in combat. He left his wife at home with their newborn daughter and a two year old son. You can watch that interview <a href="http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/44056945/ns/today-today_people/t/navy-seals-widow-we-were-blessed-be-together/">here</a>.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Even typing these words I feel an immense amount of pain for that family, and for others who are struck by tragedies like this one. I can't imagine leaving home just after the birth of my child... but the thought that I would never see that child again is too much for me to handle. Here's a picture of Aaron Vaughn in 2009 with his oldest son, who is now 2 1/2: Jude's age.<br />
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That little boy will grow up with no real recollection of his dad. I see two things in Aaron's eyes: immense love for his child and immense appreciation for the present. This picture captures for me a moment - and life, really, is a just series of moments. It may sound obvious, but we always live in the NOW. However, we spend <i>way </i>too much time regretting the past or dreading the future. Are you taking advantage of the priceless moments that you've been given? What are you doing with your NOW?<br />
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I've been really moved lately by Tim Hughes' song, "Ecclesiastes." It's on his latest album, and it was written and produced by Martin Smith, long-time lead singer of the band Delirious. But it's a song about moments - how some are great and some are terrible. Life is full of so much uncertainty, so much change. Often times nothing seems constant, but all we want is stability.<br />
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Well, in this song there are some beautiful musical elements that reveal an extremely impactful truth for me. Out of this mellow tune of uncertainty and pain comes something constant: a heartbeat emerges from behind the music; then, everything stops except that heartbeat and a simple quarter-note middle C begins to drone on and on. Then the words begin to repeat and repeat, "Now's a time for singing..." In all the change, uncertainty, fear, pain, heartache, dysfunction, crap, and brokenness of life, NOW is a time to worship. Because God stands above all the junk, and He is in control. And the love of God is stronger than any pain, any evil, any sin.<br />
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I hope this song can be an encouragement to you - for you to live in the NOW, whatever that moment is bringing you. Now's a time for singing.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">ECCLESIASTES</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">There's a time for tears and a time to dance,</div><div style="text-align: center;">There's a time to let go and a time for romance,</div><div style="text-align: center;">There's a time for war and a time for peace,</div><div style="text-align: center;">There's a time to embrace and a time to release.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>O, my Lord, I need to find, </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Take my hand, and I will follow.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">There's a time to love and a time to hate</div><div style="text-align: center;">All the evil choices that we make,</div><div style="text-align: center;">It's a time to rise and a time to fall,</div><div style="text-align: center;">It's a time to keep or just throw it all.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<div style="font-style: normal; text-align: center;"><i>O, my Lord, I need to find, </i></div><div style="font-style: normal; text-align: center;"><i>Take my hand, and I will follow.</i></div><div style="font-style: normal; text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">(Now's a time for singing...)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Raise your voice and sing,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Raise your voice and sing.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Your love in every breath I take,</div><div style="text-align: center;">In every step I make,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Your love will shine on me.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Love will shine. Love will shine.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Take my hand. I will follow.</i></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-17394604652786006102011-08-02T21:42:00.000-05:002011-08-02T21:42:44.532-05:00What Kind of Critic Are You?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEK7VcB_SMJXNyDPZo42A5lbKQkGmwhz7bKiG3-wDN-9jE5DutT3rUUomc9-y6QfJl5mwvIjQykTX1E8ZleXKZ5svRz43zOEURVUARpL_4_kQV39nvG9NQtv5W3jvSNmUgAlOoAL4SRzE/s1600/critics-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEK7VcB_SMJXNyDPZo42A5lbKQkGmwhz7bKiG3-wDN-9jE5DutT3rUUomc9-y6QfJl5mwvIjQykTX1E8ZleXKZ5svRz43zOEURVUARpL_4_kQV39nvG9NQtv5W3jvSNmUgAlOoAL4SRzE/s320/critics-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>One of the things I do in my job is oversee music in church. Church people tend to be, for the most part, very opinionated. And that makes sense, because church is connected to spirituality and tradition, both of which resonate very deeply within all of us. I'm guessing if you asked anyone who attends church regularly what they think of the music at their church, they'd have an opinion. Not many folks just shrug their shoulders and say "I don't care" when it comes to church music. <br />
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Because of that, I get a lot of feedback from people about what's good/bad/distracting/cheesy when it comes to how I plan services. And I believe that feedback is essential to designing worship for a community - so I welcome it. I love hearing what people think - I <i>must</i> hear what people think if I want to stay connected to the hearts of our people.<br />
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I also read a lot about what works other places, what other leaders are doing. So I hear feedback there as well. What I'm saying is that critical feedback is extremely important, and as leaders we have to be able to receive it (without it draining our sense of personal worth) if we hope to continue developing.<br />
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But there are loads of types of criticism. And this applies way beyond the bounds of church music. Maybe you've got to give an employee a performance review, or you need to confront your roommate or spouse on an issue. How we deliver criticism has a profound effect on how that particular message is heard.<br />
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How do you give criticism to others? Here are some questions to think about:<br />
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<b>1. Is your feedback constructive?</b> When people give feedback from a place of pain or insecurity, it is almost always destructive. Because when we're hurt, we generally want to drag someone else down with us. So if you're someone whose needs aren't being met in a certain area, try really hard to separate your critique from your own personal issues. Both of those areas are very important and worthy of being addressed; but too often people bury their own hurt in other issues, like volume of music, song selection, what people wear on stage, etc. If you're hurting while you deliver your criticism, chances are it won't be constructive, and therefore it won't be very effective. <br />
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<b>2. Are you coming from a place of humility?</b> We're proud people. And we're polarized people. That's dangerous. But when we start talking about being proud of being polarized, we're really in deep waters. As people, we tend to weld our preferences to our identity. <i>"I like this because it's who I am!" </i>Our pets don't do this. Your dog doesn't feel threatened in his dogness if you change from Alpo to Purina. But we're people, not dogs, and when change comes our way we feel like a part of us is dying. So we carry around our opinions like banners, staking our territory. <i>Does it feel like that when you give feedback to someone? </i>Do you assume that your opinion is better, or right, because it's yours? Or do you enter the discussion realizing it may be you who needs to change? I guess what I'm getting at is this: do you criticize with closed ears or open ears? <br />
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<b>3. Is your criticism being directed at the right person/people?</b> Criticism should affect change - or at least aim to. It follows, then, that constructive, purposeful criticism would have an intentional direction. If you don't like a decision, you should start by talking to the person who made that decision. With the emergence of the tweetosphere, many well-meaning critics have decided to sidestep the difficulty of face-to-face confrontations and air their grievances for everyone in the world to see. The results of such a thoughtless regurgitation of opinion is twofold: it will rally like-minded people around your personal viewpoint, and it will alienate those who disagree. Put succinctly, it polarizes people and is anything but constructive. So stop criticizing everybody to nobody using your blog! <i>(I'm hoping you see the irony of this point).</i><br />
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<b>4. Do you have the voice of an "insider" or an "outsider"?</b> The people whose voices make the biggest difference are people who are willing to associate with a group, even if that group isn't perfect. There are tons of people with amazing ideas who get extremely frustrated by the problems and dysfunctions in a given culture. But often that frustration keeps them from assimilating into that culture, so what we get are these rogue idealists who have great advice that no one hears. No group, no church, no organization, no culture is perfect. But your voice will always be more impactful from within a culture than from outside. So take a risk and join that church.<br />
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<b>5. What does your criticism usually produce?</b> Probably the greatest litmus test of how well you deliver criticism is to examine your own experiences. When you speak up, do people tend to change or get angry? Or offended? Or hurt? Do you even speak up? Your opinion has the potential to help people grow and to help organizations change for the better. But the way you communicate can change everything.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-63626096764864287662011-04-25T07:55:00.000-05:002011-04-25T07:55:10.437-05:00It Ain't EasyI read this morning in Psalm 90, where Moses said, "Even the best years are filled with pain and trouble." I read that and I began to think about my life. The last few weeks have been pretty tough around here.<br />
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I haven't blogged in a while. I've planned to, but haven't felt like it. Three weeks ago, Karen and I took Jude over to Shreveport so he could have surgery on his thumb. (It wouldn't straighten out - the surgery went well and his thumb is normal.) While we were there, I got a call saying that Larry Yeagle, one of the great men in our church, was killed while riding his bicycle north of Ruston. That news hit me and Karen pretty hard. We were standing in Target, Jude in the buggy, when we got the news. I hung up the phone and told Karen. Jude looked at us and said, "Daddy and mommy are sad." We were.<br />
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Larry had been working on a project with me, building a cart for I.A. Lewis Elementary School. His son told me that Larry had been working on the cart that afternoon just before he went on his bike ride. This is the most a death has ever affected me. It sucks.<br />
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That's tragedy. The rest of what I type here is inconvenience. It seems like for the past month and a half, some member of my family has been sick with something. Owen can't sleep through the night, so Karen feels like a zombie most of the time. The flowers I planted last month are dead. And last night the torsion spring on my garage door snapped in two so I can't get my scooter out. None of these things are that big a deal, but taken together they have really frustrated me. I mean, my flowers died!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN6sr_Y62QbqtVEkDpMvm5S6UoyzE5RKDylENTX4yxPIIUWiv95Ybh2P6jUE_vV9Ujlo7sChykkK0GWmtjoEp7agCHWgXtyv_cm6knKdz3pJ4VxWR0a7HNsunicTiRF0mpempzvpc7bx4/s1600/IMG_0201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN6sr_Y62QbqtVEkDpMvm5S6UoyzE5RKDylENTX4yxPIIUWiv95Ybh2P6jUE_vV9Ujlo7sChykkK0GWmtjoEp7agCHWgXtyv_cm6knKdz3pJ4VxWR0a7HNsunicTiRF0mpempzvpc7bx4/s200/IMG_0201.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>And then I read what Moses said. "Even our best years are filled with pain and trouble." What do I expect out of this life? What our souls long for is "rest on every side." And I think that's what I keep waiting on. But it ain't gonna happen here - not until Jesus comes back and makes everything right. Something will always be broken; someone will always be sick; bills will always be due; weeds will always sprout up.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidM6B16pWSUmMCWbV70mIs9T-fCXdBUbuTDJpCk0qkGpvlMVKv7QkzvE1St2HPYmxSRxJh3fQ9Z9jk7SYguK7x-T7qbEEn7BL0LqURXnDX-buL8ClECU6JZ-C1ms1GGoQNqtyyvQk4o-4/s1600/IMG_0193.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidM6B16pWSUmMCWbV70mIs9T-fCXdBUbuTDJpCk0qkGpvlMVKv7QkzvE1St2HPYmxSRxJh3fQ9Z9jk7SYguK7x-T7qbEEn7BL0LqURXnDX-buL8ClECU6JZ-C1ms1GGoQNqtyyvQk4o-4/s200/IMG_0193.JPG" width="200" /></a>So I've got a choice to make. Either I can keep being frustrated that something isn't right, or I can learn to be a person who focuses on what is right. Spiritual maturity is not pessimism. It's peace, joy, and thankfulness no matter the circumstances. And I've got to believe these are some of the best years of my life. And even though I'll have trouble, I'll also have hope. Because Jesus has promised me that one day I'll have a life without junk. But it ain't this one.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-39640397870389667962011-03-30T10:36:00.001-05:002011-03-30T10:40:06.753-05:00Things That Kill Worship: Self-Awareness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEhF8mBRCByMX0DWI42eYjexbZduDtrda67rZ0EjE94-3SJYN4FcKCNacVnzkmMansAMXiOjjMroy0vk9wge2c7fxZuvCruhUgsP1rFPfw3OoZFkIf2poocAUHfHLnME8TuWQNYUWP7xg/s1600/49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEhF8mBRCByMX0DWI42eYjexbZduDtrda67rZ0EjE94-3SJYN4FcKCNacVnzkmMansAMXiOjjMroy0vk9wge2c7fxZuvCruhUgsP1rFPfw3OoZFkIf2poocAUHfHLnME8TuWQNYUWP7xg/s320/49.jpg" width="249" /></a></div>Sixth grade was really hard for me. At the beginning of that year, the cruel realities of social order and brand-name clothing came crashing in on me. That reality became more cruel when I quickly realized that I was at the bottom of the social order, and that my clothing style was the example of how <i>not</i> to dress. Everything I enjoyed turned out to be uncool. Like to play the trumpet? Guilty. Uncoordinated and can't dribble a basketball? Guilty. Are you so skinny that no one can tell the difference between your sternum and your spine? Guilty. <br />
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At the risk of sounding like a nutcase, I hated my life that year. Not because my school was depressing, although it was. And not because I didn't have many friends, although I didn't. I think I was miserable because I didn't like myself that year. And I think I didn't like myself that year because I thought about myself incessantly. Everything I did or said was filtered through the questions of "how will this appear to them?" or "what will they think of me?" As I think back on that year, I remember it as overcast and cold, always rainy. I would wake up early in the morning, look and the mirror, and just dread going to school. I remember having the thought, "Who is going to be mean to me today?" I tried so hard to be perfect, to make sure everything on my person was in its proper place. That way I wouldn't be a target for anyone. So I was careful that my braided leather belt was straight, and that my brown Eastland loafers were tied just right. <br />
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I was drowning in my own self-awareness.<br />
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Now my job is to lead people in worship through music. There are lots of people who participate and sing along. But there are lots of other people who just stare back at me with their hands in their pockets and wait for the service to be over. Part of my job is to figure out how I can lead those people to a place where they can experience God in worship. What are their obstacles?<br />
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I think one of the things that keeps people from worshiping is the same thing that made me so miserable in the sixth grade: self-awareness. Some people have such a preoccupation with how they appear to others that they can't see God for who He is. And that's where worship has to start: seeing God.<br />
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True worshipers are never self aware. At least not primarily. You know this intuitively. You've seen <a href="http://www.nfl.com/videos/nfl-videos/09000d5d81d25d86/It-s-the-Playoffs-Saints">those NFL playoff commercials</a> where people are body-slamming each other, or grown men are jumping up and down hugging, because their team wins the game. That's the absence of self-awareness. Self-awareness fades when you place your mind's attention and your heart's affection on something beautiful. That's when true worship happens. That's when it doesn't matter if you sing on key, or if your posture is different from those around you. <br />
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Now, of course, self-awareness has a place in worship. But it's only after we see God for who He is that we can have a healthy self-awareness, a different kind of self-awareness. It's the kind of self-awareness that comes when you're watching a movie with your grandmother and a sex scene comes on. You become aware of something that you normally wouldn't be aware of because you're in the presence of someone better than you.<br />
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So maybe you're someone who doesn't really get anything out of a corporate worship time. It's possible that you aren't experiencing anything because you're looking no further than yourself. Lift your eyes, see who God is, and worship Him.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-60701255541117742292011-03-09T10:21:00.000-06:002011-03-09T10:21:47.392-06:00What Is Failure In Leadership?I lead worship. Have for a long time. The first time I led worship was from behind a Yamaha 56-key synthesizer at FBC Ruston, LA on a Wednesday night when I was 13. The songs included "Sanctuary," "Lord I Lift Your Name on High," and a stirring rendition of Steven Curtis Chapman's "When You Are a Soldier." You only wish you were lucky enough to have been there.<br />
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As I think back over the past 17 years of leading worship, I think the greatest challenge I've had to overcome is internal fear. There's always a voice in the back of my mind saying, "What if no one follows you? What if you are completely wrong in the direction you think we should go?" <br />
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My fear came true once. It was terrible. "It" happened during my sophomore year of college, in a worship service called "Thursday Night's Together," a gathering of 300-400 college students. Back then we would have an extended worship set each week after the message. This particular week the feel was particularly intimate, and we were finishing up a slow song. I instructed the congregation to spend a few moments in silence, meditating on God's nearness and the truth that we just sang about. And in a moment that I will forever ask <i>"what was I thinking?"</i>, I thought it would be a good idea for everyone to shout for joy at what God has done for us. Honestly, I thought it was right. And I thought people would follow. Wrong and wrong. I yelled, "Let's just shout to God!!!!" Then time stood still. An outcry bellowed from my loins, up through my diaphragm, lungs, into my throat. By the time the guttural shriek produced sound, I realized that no one else would be participating in my shoutfest. My scream ended much more quickly than it started, as I tried to play it off. It ended up sounding like part's of <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/4195/saturday-night-live-derek-stevens-chopping-broccoli">Dana Carvey's "Chopping Broccoli."</a> As you can imagine, no one bought it. And I felt like a doofus. The Supreme Doofus.<br />
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Was that leadership failure? If that question means "did I make a poor decision?" then the answer is yes. But I don't know that I failed as a leader.<br />
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I've been reading in Leviticus, and I came across the Year of Jubilee that Israel was to celebrate once every 49 years. (Chapter 25) On that year, all slaves were freed, and all land went back to the family that it was originally allotted to. The Year of Jubilee would ensure that no one in Israel would ever be stuck in poverty. All bets were off, and people celebrated freedom and forgiveness.<br />
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Great idea - but no one followed. We have no record of Israel ever celebrating the Year of Jubilee. God spent all that time, ink, and paper - or chisel and stone - to lay out the call for Israel. But they sat silent. <br />
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Did God fail? Of course not. So maybe success in leadership isn't based on whether or not people follow. <b>The greatest failure in leadership is not leading.</b> It's way better for me to fail, admit it, and move on, than for me to never challenge people to go anywhere.<br />
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In worship leadership, the fear can be paralyzing for me. <i>"This is different from what they're used to. What if they don't like it? What if they leave me hanging and I fall flat on my face?" </i>All those questions are still there. But if I'm called by God to lead these people, then I must lead, regardless of their response.<br />
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What fears keep you from living out your calling?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-28968186436444156002011-03-02T09:58:00.000-06:002011-03-02T09:58:35.452-06:00Worship As Diligence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKd7ZBY3R2Ngt6EmtqyH41pxwCrQZUPHsSe9sUXdROPkLtsbZOt_LTn9xtRw49_XeGHo7m8wQPCnLD84KyQuN_xnX16n_Xfb_ztbGGdeBOX8lmK8zcE5Ss653hTr0jsXy9p91hj6rlSGc/s1600/laziness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKd7ZBY3R2Ngt6EmtqyH41pxwCrQZUPHsSe9sUXdROPkLtsbZOt_LTn9xtRw49_XeGHo7m8wQPCnLD84KyQuN_xnX16n_Xfb_ztbGGdeBOX8lmK8zcE5Ss653hTr0jsXy9p91hj6rlSGc/s320/laziness.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The Bible is really clear: as Christians, we are supposed to worship God with our whole life - whether that's at church, work, home, hanging out with friends at the park - it's all worship. Even the most mundane tasks in life can be dedicated to God as acts of worship. The way I spend my time should be an act of worship to God. Let's face it, it's worship to someone (or something) -- myself, my favorite sport, a video game, a reality show, etc.<br />
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By giving my time to something, I'm declaring that it has value.<br />
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So here's the kicker for me - and it's really not fair. I've found that in my own life, laziness produces laziness, and productivity produces productivity. On weeks that I'm busy, I have all this energy to get stuff done, I exercise. I find that when I finish a task, I don't just want to go sit and do nothing, but start something else. <span id="goog_1787733670"></span><span id="goog_1787733671"></span><br />
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But when I have a slow week, I tend to watch more TV, lay on the couch more, and eat more candy. You'd think that in those times I would have more energy to do the small, less important things that are more nagging than stressful. But I don't. When I have more free time, I spend less time in a productive way.<br />
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There's a difference between Biblical Rest - the kind that we all desperately need and pleases God - and laziness. One is an act of faith, of dependence, of devotion. The other is an act of selfishness. One pleases God, one insults God. (Compare Leviticus 23:3 and Proverbs 6:6-11)<br />
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So how do you spend your time? Do you feel unmotivated? Get up and do something! It'll make you feel better, and it will produce in you more energy to do something else. Turn off the xbox. Get something done. And do it with a heart of worship.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6421547562483707184.post-81642682120612952912011-02-23T09:47:00.000-06:002011-02-23T09:47:08.879-06:00How'd You Get Here?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjl3aRKxRJXw6k9c7QCQOsZLzG5MHK_5E0K84gF6NHNwM0ShXsZ8pHowz6JR4QsxAzEVeHL6mZy-B6Dk_vI_wIOtAxhA26mEJJWbXtB1bulpH54VYnaWVlV20K2h0OfjsP1RIicvawZ8/s1600/Many-Car-Pile-Up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjl3aRKxRJXw6k9c7QCQOsZLzG5MHK_5E0K84gF6NHNwM0ShXsZ8pHowz6JR4QsxAzEVeHL6mZy-B6Dk_vI_wIOtAxhA26mEJJWbXtB1bulpH54VYnaWVlV20K2h0OfjsP1RIicvawZ8/s320/Many-Car-Pile-Up.jpg" width="233" /></a>I think I'm in a really good place right now. My job is aligned with my passion and my gifting. I've got an incredible family. But how'd I get here? <br />
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In 1995, Christ Community Church (CCC) in Ruston went through a terribly painful church split. Dozens of families who had been an integral part of planting the church a decade earlier broke fellowship with many of their closest friends. Lifelong relationships were shattered. It was yet another ugly display of church division in Ruston, LA.<br />
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I wasn't there. I grew up at another church in Ruston, First Baptist. In the mid-90's, our church was thriving under the leadership of Danny Wood. It was a great time for me to be in high school. During my freshman year, we experienced a huge influx of families from the CCC split, and I got to know many of those people.<br />
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In 2000, my church began to experience tough times. Through leadership failures and competing ministry philosophies, the unified vision of my church morphed into a PR campaign to make sure everyone was happy. My closest friends were hurt, and I was hurt. I took a couple of church jobs in the area in an attempt to find excuses not to go to church in Ruston. I was bitter, and I was wrong. But God used my mistakes, and the mistakes others to open doors that never would have opened. In 2002, many of the families who had left Christ Community in 1995 planted a new church in Ruston called Crossroads. They asked me to be part of the team and lead worship on Sundays. Karen and I decided to give it a shot.<br />
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If the 1995 split at CCC had never happened, Crossroads would not have started. If FBC had not hit such hard times in the early 2000s, I would not have taken a ministry job in my hometown, because I wouldn't have been able to leave my home church.<br />
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God has a way of taking our screw-ups, raking through the carnage, and rebuilding something beautiful. That's essentially the story of planet earth, right? We destroy, He redeems. We sin, He forgives. Beauty from ashes.<br />
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In Genesis 50:20, Joseph says that what was originally intended for evil, God used for good. The ultimate example of this, of course, is the cross. Jewish leaders thought that by killing Jesus they would destroy His influence over the region. But God used their sinful decision to redeem fallen humanity.<br />
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Take a look behind you. How has God used your mistakes or painful experiences to bring you where you are today?<br />
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What's broken in your life right now? Maybe you're going through something terrible, devastating. You've got reason to have a lot of hope in the middle of that circumstance. God's probably sifting through the rubble, gathering materials to build something that you wouldn't believe.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09674249347541417791noreply@blogger.com1