Living in the Eye

During our last year in Orlando we lived through four hurricanes. The first, Hurricane Charlie, was easily the worst. Charlie came in off of the Gulf small and fast. His approach to central Florida over the course of the day was preceded by thunderstorms and tornados. I hate watching the weather but that day I was glued to the TV. He finally arrived in the evening. Honestly I can't remember the details about Charlie's rating when he finally made it to O-town, all I remember is the howling of the wind. Outside of our apartment it raged throughout the evening as we hid in the only room without a window... our guest bathroom. Then, all of the sudden, in the dark of night, it stopped. The raging maelstrom was replaced by a gentle breeze; we were in the eye. It wouldn't last of course. Shortly the wind began again and the damage that Charlie caused across central Florida is well documented. That is what made that short period of calm all the more strange, almost deceitful. It gave a false sense of peace in the midst of a terrible tempest.

In a strange way that is how we are feeling right now. This morning I pulled out my journal and noticed that the last time I had actually gotten to write in it was the morning of December 22nd, the day that Andrew had his CT and was diagnosed. The  next two and a half weeks are almost a blur... I had to look at a calendar just to figure out how long it was. Those days passed as if time were swirling just as quickly as the gales of Charlie. The last week though has been characterized by a strange calm. The only real reminder of Andrew's treatment, his daily shot, passes quickly because it is done by a friend who is a nurse. When I come home from work I am met by three children running to me screaming my name. Pillow fights and wrestling matches occur with frequency. Meal times are governed by the noise of three kids competing for their time to talk. It feels right, but it feels wrong. It feels like the eye.

When the eye of a hurricane passes over it provides the opportunity to come out of hiding and appraise the damages, knowing of course that more will come. This last week has allowed that as well. The damages though aren't what I would have expected. Apparently my heart has found new and creative ways of struggling with these trying circumstances. As an example, Jess wrote yesterday of the many blessings that we have received over the course of the last month. As I have had time to breathe I have realized that these blessings have caused no small amount of disruption in me. To put it frankly, this kind of care really messes with me. When two people show up at my door with a gift of a new bed that has nothing to do with my child who has cancer but is simply a gift of love to those that are hurting, I want to run out my back door. When people I've never met, in a state I've only been to twice send me cards saying that they are praying for us daily and want to encourage us, I don't want to read them. When people who make far less money than I do give of what they have to us because they want to help us, I want to find something else to talk about. When I hear reports of people talking about the impact of sermons that I preached that were under-prepared, I want to bury myself in some escape from reality. The truth is hardly difficult to grasp, I can't deal with gratuity, with care, with love.

Honestly, I'm far more comfortable with trial than I am with blessing. I know that sounds counterintuitive, but it is true. In trial  I feel a sense of control even if it is only the control of expectation. In blessing though, especially in the blessing of the last month, I am completely taken off guard. I have assumed for most of my life that people stay around me because they find me useful; I offer something to them. Gifts or care then becomes a kind of business transaction; I receive something when I have been especially useful. Right now I am of no use to anyone. I have cut back on my workload, I am less available to friends, my mind seems to always be clouded, not allowing me to formulate thoughts well; in short all of the ways that I have traditionally seen myself as valuable to others have been taken from me. Yet, at the same time, gratuity comes. 

Yes, one might say, but you have a kid with cancer. That is true, but you wouldn't know it right now. This means that, along with the desire to flee the grace we are being shown, I also feel a tinge of guilt. Will someone read our posts and say, "It doesn't seem all that bad. Maybe they exaggerated the situation."? In reality there are many kids, even in our area, who have a worse prognosis than Andrew, some that are struggling far more than us. Will people see this and suddenly leave or withdraw their care? If you knew my story you wouldn't think that was so crazy a thought.

All this is really to say that the one of the biggest areas of struggle during this time of relative calm has not been chemo side-effects or the stress of pastoring a new church along with being a cancer parent. What I am struggling most with right now is love. I find myself asking the question, "Can you receive a gift, unearned, given simply because someone loves you and sees you in distress?" Great question... I'm not sure... it's hard. But then, that isn't just a Gilmartin question; I suppose it is a human question. I'd be willing to bet I'm not the only one who struggles with receiving, truly receiving, a gift. Our pride and our fear want to claim that we've earned it. That way we can claim credit and take control; if you know how to earn something you know how to get it again when you want it. But if we really wrestle with gratuity then we have to move from a posture that reaches up to grab to a posture that opens our hands waiting to receive. That, friends, is terrifying. 

I guess all that is to say that this period of relative calm, this eye that we're living in right now, has opened my eyes to how scared I am. I already knew I was scared of Andrew's cancer and the repercussions of it. Now I see that I am also scared of the love that we're being shown through this. I'm scared that it isn't real, scared that it will suddenly disappear, scared that there are expectations on me that I don't know... pretty much all the things I'm scared about when it comes to believing the Gospel. Next week at this time Andrew will begin his second cycle of chemo and the winds will begin to howl again. Until then we'll just have to keep wrestling with life in the eye, trying to enjoy what we have been given instead of looking to what is coming.