Give Me a Sign

Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love’s sake. Amen.

 ~ The Book of Common Prayer ~

But Moses said to God, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” And God said, “I will be with you. And this will be the sign to you that it is I who have sent you: When you have brought the people out of Egypt, you will worship God on this mountain.”

~ The Bible, God’s story of promise and rescue in Exodus. ~

 We’ve received some disappointing news.

Two and a half years ago on the second floor of the Prairie Center at Avera Health, Amy and I received ‘the news’ for the first time: you have cancer.

A few Tuesdays ago on the same floor in a similar office we waited again. It had been two years since walking through the heavy days of treatment. We had arrived to hear the results of a recent bone marrow biopsy (standard at two years) to see where things stand. After two years of chemo injections, church planting, birthday parties, anniversaries, chemo pills, dinners, new friends, prayer meetings, family trips, naps, and legos … we heard:

Dave, your cancer is slowly making a comeback.

Okay. <breathe> Okay. <breathe> Not the shell-shocking news of a first diagnosis.  Not the sober news of ‘there are no more options.’ In fact, even this news was coupled with the great optimism of future options, potential cures, a bright future, added years…

Even so, it’s the heavy news of ‘it’s slowly coming for you … in a year.’ Or more. Or less.

 This is not the news that we wanted.

It’s a dark promise of a rendezvous that will be kept. It’s the commitment of an enemy to come at the time of his choosing. I’ll see you …. sometime. I’m still not used to being threatened so directly and so confidently. But Darkness is not the only one who makes promises.

My Father has drawn me to a handful of recurring Bible stories over the past years of this journey, but a new promise is emerging from a well-known text these days. Not just promises of comfort, of friendship, of strength, which have been so need. But adding to that – the promise of worship. In Exodus 3, we find a burning bush where God meets with his anointed run-away prince-shepherd, … and he gives him a sign. This is the story when God comes to Moses to send him to challenge the Empire of Egypt and somehow get God’s people, who are currently slaves, out. The outrageousness of the story is overshadowed by the reality that God actually succeeds in rescuing his people. But before any miracles go down, here at the beginning, Moses is overwhelmed with God choosing him to be his man. Enter all the doubts (my voice is unsteady, I’ve already failed in Egypt – don’t send me back, I don’t have what I need to do what you are asking me to do).

Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?

I am unequal to the task ahead. We often always are. We thought we were prepared for getting any kind of news that Tuesday. Turns out, I wasn’t. Dave, you are unequal to the task. Every few days now, I hear: Your cancer is coming back. Dad, what’s for breakfast?! See you soon. Build a puzzle with me, Dad. I’m coming for you. Not crushing. Just a whisper doing a drive by. I can’t help finding myself wishing for a sign from God about now that this story is going to go the way we are hoping, in the way we are hoping. [Full disclosure: I don’t have a great track record of being right when trying to tell God how the story is supposed to go].

As Moses finds himself fumbling in his encounter with God, God’s response is just that – to give him a sign.

 I will be with you and this shall be a sign for you.

Looking good so far. Signs are good. Signs are good.

            When you have brought the people out of Egypt, you shall worship God on this mountain.

Hmmm.

This is a mystery. The sign is a promise. The promise is about future worship. I was planning on the sign being something more like lightning. But the sign is a promise.

I’m tempted to reflect on what this means for us Christians. For the way God works in the world -  the way God transcends certainty with trust. How the life of faith is a life of promises and trust and walking and anointing and Spirit-appointed authority rather than strategy and certainty and counting how many are on our side or theirs. So much could be said.

But, rather, let me testify. Heaven’s promise has been to me a glory and a well to draw on.

I cannot remember a promise I’ve ever been given personally by my Father in heaven that has had as much strength and staying power as this promise: There is nothing that has happened, can happen, or will happen that will be strong enough to hinder your worship, Dave, at the end of this story. This story ends with worship. There will be a congregation of people who have been rescued and we will be there, I will be there in the congregation, and their will be unhindered praise in my mouth. We. Will. Worship. 

That promise is true. That is going to happen.

No injury or loss or casualties or interruptions or timeline will ultimately overcome the promise of worship. How much sweeter that this promise is given to us who have been through seasons where we lost our song. Where we lost the thread. Where praise seemed stolen or parched. Where my praise choked out. Dark whispers, let me introduce you to the Lord of all. His name is Jesus and he has made stronger promises than you. We are worshipers and ever will be. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

And, so, we wait.

What’s next? Mostly, we continue to do what we have been doing.

• I’ve been getting chemotherapy injections and pills for two years. We were hoping I could stop that. I can’t. (We are experimenting what dropping the shots looks like, but the pills continue).

• Blood work, checkups, pills, the presence of cancer all continue.

• Barring a miracle sometime in the next twelve months (or maybe 5 years?) I’ll be doing a second 30-day stint in the hospital, getting lethal doses of chemotherapy to make way for ground-breaking almost-cure treatment.

We are disappointed about walking that path, even with all the medical optimist surrounding it. What does all of this mean for our family, for Amy and the boys? For our friendships? For our church and the work God has put before us? It is beautifully beyond us. We don’t know!

But resting in his promise,

we continue to work;

we continue to watch;

and, on occasion, we weep;

knowing that day of worship will never be taken away.

*As always, I imagine it can be hard to know what to say. It’s okay to ask about. It’s okay to talk about. It’s okay to bring up. It is or lives and we’ve chosen to walk this out openly. You don’t need to say anything, but questions are always welcome. Our boys are still blissfully unaware of our journey. We’d like to keep it that way for now. So please, consider the context when bringing things up.

**This is a strange journey to walk in a pseudo-public, long-term way. But I continue to be blessed by the refusal of our community to pity us or feel sorry for us. Bearing our joys and sorrows with us has been a great comfort and much stronger than pity could ever be. Thank you. Thank you. We also weep and rejoice with you, even as you care and come alongside of us.