RSGC

This is the 4th of a series of posts chronicling Chris' battle with Acute Myeloid Leukemia.

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 Refined Southern Gentlemen's Club, 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.

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.

MOON'S GROCERY

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."

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.

WIFFLE BALL

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.

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.

THE PORCH

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. What was wrong with me? Why wasn't this pain going away? 

I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket and put a song on called "Song of Solomon" 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. 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 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.

THE DRIVE HOME

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. Am I okay? Will I wake up tomorrow feeling fine, having worried about nothing? How sick am I?

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.

Something Ain't Right

This is the 3rd of a series of posts chronicling Chris' battle with Acute Myeloid Leukemia.

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.

SEPTEMBER 17

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. Just wanting to eat better.

About mid-morning, my stomach started to feel funny. That's what happens when you eat healthy, 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.

See? It was nothing.

OCTOBER 2: WEDNESDAY

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.

It went away last time; it'll go away this time.

OCTOBER 3: THURSDAY

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:

Me: "Jason, do stomach ulcers hurt really bad in your abdominal regions?"

Jason: "Yes."

So that's what I had. Problem solved.

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.

Just in case, I ate lunch at Zaxby's. Worked last time.

OCTOBER 4: FRIDAY

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.

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?"

Dr. Wood: "Probably not. But make an appointment to see me on Monday morning just so we can rule out anything serious."

Me: "Okay. Thanks Doc."

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.

Prelude: Summer 2013

This is the 2nd of a series of posts chronicling Chris' battle with Acute Myeloid Leukemia.

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.

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. 

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.

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!

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. 

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. 

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. 

Dad, Patrick, and Wheelchair at the site of the Boston Massacre. 

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.

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? Normal* people? Up until that point, I didn't really think so.

That night, I led worship for a missionary send-off service at church. The words of this song took on deeper meaning for me as they gave language to my soul to express to God what I needed to say. 

God, I look to You, I won't be overwhelmed,
Give me vision to see things like You do.
God, I look to You, You're where my help comes from,
Give me wisdom, You know just what to do.

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.

I believe God used that terrible news to prepare me for what would come my way just two months later.

Yankee Stadium

*Editor's Note: Upon reflection, I am definitely not normal. 

Telling My Story

This is the 1st of a series of posts chronicling Chris' battle with Acute Myeloid Leukemia.

I've been battling cancer for the past five months.

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.

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.

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. 

Here's what I know: 

God is sovereign. Period. No qualifications or caveats. 

God is good. Infinitely good. The standard and source for all other goodness. 

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. 

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.

Demonstrating Worship

I 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 - give up everything for Christ's sake. 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.

As I interacted with that truth, this leadership principle emerged for me:

THE THINGS THAT YOU DEMONSTRATE WITH YOUR OWN LIFE WILL BE THE THINGS THAT ARE PRODUCED IN THE LIVES OF THE PEOPLE YOU INFLUENCE.

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.

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.

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.

Whatever our coping mechanism looks like, we all have a tendency as worship leaders to assume that a disengaged congregation is our problem, so 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 demonstrate 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.

Before tempos, pitch, transitions, or eloquence, the one great responsibility of worship leaders is this: am I worshiping? 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 will follow.