The Voice

"Count!"
The order assaulted her senses as she tore at the damp sheets. The girl tossed her heavy head to the side trying to quiet the demon-like voices that poked and prodded.

"Five-thousand, six hundred and seventy two, five thousand, six hundred and seventy three, five thousand six hundred and seventy four..."

The vile taste in her mouth made her nauseated but she didn't have the strength to move, to get a drink, to go to the bathroom. She couldn't even recall where the bathroom was. Where was she? Why do the voices torture her so?
"I can't! I can't!" she cried as the pressure for her to continue played havoc with her mind. Perspiration covered her face like drizzle. Her hair was matted and unkempt. But the girl's outward appearance was the least of her worries.

"Five-thousand, six hundred and seventy five, five thousand, six hundred and seventy six, five thousand six hundred and seventy seven..."

"No more! Stop...please."
The girl's frantic voice sounded threadbare and weak.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...all good children go to heaven. When they die, put them in a pie. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven!"

"Stop!"
Stillness. Black.
As the girl lay motionless, a wet cloth placed on her forehead took on the appearance of a veil. A shroud. Enveloping. Shielding. Preparing. A grave cloth?
"Count! Death child. Count!"

Like a timid fawn the girl tucked in her limbs and feigned sleep. As the girl drifted into oblivion, the voices started again.

"Awaken and hearken to my instruction!" The demon voice bellowed. "Heed not to sleep wretch!"

"Five-thousand, six hundred and seventy eight, five thousand, six hundred and seventy nine, five thousand six hundred and eighty..."

Like a beating wind, the dreaded voices came faster and urged the girl to count more; longer; louder; higher. The girl could not keep track. She did not know where to begin. She had no sense that her counting would...could ever end. Her voice faltered. Her mind - obfuscated.

"Take me, Jesus. Grace, mercy. Take me," the girl uttered. She no longer wanted to fight. She would give up to the merciless voices and succumb to their incessant battering. They would win.

Then, barely an audible whisper, she heard it. The Voice. It was different. Balm for the soul. Divine balm.

"Count with me my precious child..." came the sweet, loving words.
She reached up her tired arm in the direction of the tender voice. "Where do I begin?" she asked as she opened her eyes and felt a peace like she had not experienced for a very long time.
Start at the beginning - Alpha. Fullness of life. Journey with Me. It is finished - Omega.
The girl's fever had broken.

************************************************************************************

True story...me at 11 years of age. Sadly, I did not realize the significance of that dream for many years. Wasted years? I'm letting God be the judge on that one...

Prognosis

A writer friend of mine e-mailed me a few weeks ago. "Can I put you in touch with a friend of mine...she has ovarian cancer, too?"

My stomach knotted as I realized another sister was beginning to tread the same path I had a mere ten months ago. My compassionate friend who thought I might perhaps be a comfort because I had already put a few miles on my own cancer slippers, introduced us by the power of technology.

Being asked to speak to someone going through the same experience as I did, is an honour and I am humbled. If I am able to share something and help someone - especially to a soul embarking upon her journey - then I am there with all the bells and whistles I can muster.

As I am getting to know Rosie, I am being blessed and filled with joy as I hear the strength in her words. She believes mightily in the health care system. She has first hand knowledge of how everything works. She is aware of drugs and side effects and hair loss and how cancer can consume a body. But the most wonderful and amazing part is that Rosie recognizes (and worships) the Source of her strength. There is no fist shaking or foot stamping or cries of 'why me?' She is not happy with her diagnosis. In fact she is devastated. The woman and her sweet hubby have a 7 year old, a set of 5 year old twins and a two year old. How heart wrenching is that? Yet this brave soldier is clicking on her armour and preparing herself for battle.

Jesus will go with her tomorrow as she prepares for her first chemotherapy session. Doctors have offered thoughts on a prognosis for Rosie and some of the medical predictions might be interpreted as not the greatest news. But in my communications with my new friend, I am discovering a beautiful example of a woman surrendering to Christ (note, I did not say - giving up...) She seems to be turning to the Lord - not out of desperation, but rather out of relationship.

I love the way Rosie shared her feelings with me on the word PROGNOSIS: "...but as (a) child of God I KNOW that I have a 100% chance of living exactly as long as He wills. All the days given to me were written in His book before one of them came to be ;-). The Lord gave me a really neat definition of prognosis from His perspective when I was in the hospital. He said that prognosis is just a

Person’s
Reasoned
Observational
Guess, with
N O
Spiritual
Insight,
Sister!"

Isn't that the best? I'm going to cling to that definition myself the next time I start thinking about my three month check up when I was given the 50/50 scenario.

Trust. Belief. Daring to defy the odds (because it's God who divvies out every breathe we take and each lub-dub beating that spectacular rhythm on our chest wall.) To Him be the glory and the honour.

If anyone thinks about Rosie today, I encourage you to pray for her and her family. Onward Christian Soldiers...

No Use Crying Over Spilled Wine?

Today was communion. The mood was somber. Pastor Kramer had just preached on being faithful in our commitment to God. He spoke about the woman who came to Simon's home and honoured Jesus by washing his feet with her tears.

The moment was reflective. I thought about my own faith walk and how God had been so forgiving of me in the past. I contemplated my situation and remembered how He had seen me through my own suffering and pain. I gazed upon the elements that were passed. I took the bread and reflected upon Christ and how he suffered so much more and how His body was broken for me. Then the wine was passed. I placed the delicate little glass on the ledge in front of my seat.

A few minutes later, Pastor Kramer invited the congregation to then share the wine together and think upon the sacrifice of Christ. As I tipped the glass to partake - as they say, I spilled the wine. A splotch appeared on my beige pants and I felt awful. I began chastising myself for being so clumsy and awkward. Why could I not be more careful? As I clucked away, I felt God's whisper. I listened. God told me not to worry about the wine that was spilled. "No use crying over spilled wine..." He told me that the spilled wine represented the spilled blood of Jesus. He assured me that there was not need for reprimand but a greater need for a reminder. I wiped at the wet mark but I stared at the spot for a moment.

My Jesus, I love Thee, I know Thou art mine;

For Thee all the follies of sin I resign;

My gracious Redeemer, my Savior art Thou;

If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, ’tis now.

I love Thee because Thou hast first loved me,

And purchased my pardon on Calvary’s tree;

I love Thee for wearing the thorns on Thy brow;

If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, ’tis now.

I’ll love Thee in life, I will love Thee in death,

And praise Thee as long as Thou lendest me breath;

And say when the death dew lies cold on my brow,

If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, ’tis now.

In mansions of glory and endless delight,

I’ll ever adore Thee in heaven so bright;

I’ll sing with the glittering crown on my brow,

If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, ’tis now...

I saw Jesus Today.

(Photo: Garion [Gary] Fowler)





This morning I had a call from a mom who's 19 year old son was killed in a car accident last week. She buried her baby on Saturday. Yet she called ME this morning to see how I was doing. I cried when I heard her voice. "How are you doing, Glynis?" she wanted to know. I could sense the sincerity in her tone.

I should have been the one to call her and offer her the comfort that she was caressing me with on this quiet September morning. She soothed me and helped my tears subside.


What a testimony to the power and the mercy found in the Lord. "I have no strength," this brave mother uttered when I asked her how she was doing. "I am totally dependent on the power of God." She admitted to having none.

I have been going through some valleys since my chemotherapy treatment last week and it has seemed a tougher and more cobbled pathway this time around. But my valley has been nothing compared to what this valiant mother has faced along with her family. Yet she was concerned about me.

She talked about Garion - Gary, her sweet son. I could sense the smile on her face as she remembered her boy. She told me about the pain that was present, but she was trying to focus on the good things. She knew her son loved the Lord. He was the big military lad who wrote a scripture verse in his high school year book and didn't give two hoots about what anyone might say about it. She knew his sense of humour and his love of family. How she would miss that. We talked for a while about families and some other things and then we finally said our goodbyes.

When I hung up the telephone I sat for a moment contemplating what had just occurred. Then I realized what had happened. I had just been treated to a special gift. Kathy called and I had caught a glimpse of Jesus.