Perspectives

Over the last several months, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about perspective.

As I write this, I’ve had a few difficult days.

Not physically difficult in the way most people might imagine.

Emotionally difficult.

The kind of days where the fatigue feels heavier.

The kind of days where motivation is harder to find.

The kind of days where it’s more difficult to see the positive than it usually is.

Those days happen.

In fact, they are part of the reason I’m writing this.

When I was first diagnosed with a brain tumor, my mind immediately went to all the things that could go wrong.

I think that’s a pretty normal reaction.

But as I look back over the last several months, I realize that almost every difficult conversation has also been accompanied by some form of good news.

The tumor was operable.

The surgeon was highly skilled and experienced.

The surgery was successful.

The DNA markers came back with encouraging results.

Treatment has been manageable so far.

Even the loss of my hair turned out to be one less thing to worry about. I started losing my hair as a teenager and have been shaving my head for years. For once, being bald worked in my favor.

It’s funny how life works sometimes.

What once felt like a disadvantage became a blessing.

One aspect of treatment that I never expected was learning how expensive it is.

My current treatment comes at a cost of roughly $41,000 per month.

Thankfully, between my insurance and VA benefits, I don’t pay a dime out of pocket.

It is very possible that my disease is connected to my military service, and the VA has stepped in to help cover my care.

Forty years ago, when I raised my right hand and enlisted in the Marine Corps, I had no idea that decision would someday intersect with a brain tumor diagnosis.

Back then, I was thinking about serving my country, challenging myself, and building a future. I certainly wasn’t thinking about brain tumors, chemotherapy, or medical treatments that cost more than many people earn in a year.

Yet here I am.

A decision made decades ago is helping carry me through one of the biggest challenges of my life.

The more I reflect on all of this, the more I realize how many blessings were already in place long before I knew I would need them.

My family.

My friends.

My faith.

My healthcare.

My support system.

Even a shaved head.

Some blessings were the result of decisions made years ago.

Others were gifts I never earned and could never have planned for.

All of them remind me that I have much to be thankful for.

Most importantly, I know that I am a child of God.

That truth gives me hope every single day.

I believe in a God of miracles.

I believe He is fully capable of healing me.

I believe He could remove every trace of this disease if He chose to do so.

And honestly, knowing that He can is enough to carry me through today and into tomorrow.

Do I pray for healing?

Absolutely – Boldly and daily.

Do I hope for the best possible outcome?

Of course.

But my faith is not dependent on receiving the answer I want.

Whether God chooses to take this disease from me or not changes nothing about who He is.

He is still my Creator.

He is still my God.

He is still my hope.

There is tremendous peace in knowing that my hope is not found in a scan, a test result, a treatment plan, or even a prognosis.

My hope is found in Him.

For years I heard people say, “God won’t give you more than you can handle.”

If I’m being honest, I never fully understood that statement.

Life absolutely gives us more than we can handle.

At least it does me.

This journey has taught me something different.

God may allow me to face more than I can handle on my own, but He will never ask me to face it alone.

The strength isn’t found in me.

The strength is found in Him.

The other night, a parent stayed after class to talk with me.

She told me that her church was praying for me every day.

Then she said something about how strong I must be.

I appreciated the kindness behind the comment, but if I’m being honest, those compliments always make me a little uncomfortable.

I don’t feel especially strong.

In fact, this journey has made me more aware of my weaknesses much more than my strengths.

I’ve learned how quickly fear can appear.

How heavy fatigue can feel.

How easily discouragement can creep in.

More than anything, I’ve learned how much I need other people.

And how much I need God.

Please don’t mistake any of this for me having extraordinary faith.

I don’t.

I’m flawed.

I get discouraged.

I get frustrated.

I get tired.

I have moments when fear gets the better of me.

There are days when anger feels easier than gratitude.

In fact, there are moments every single day when I have to stop and ask God for strength.

Strength for this moment.

Strength for this day.

Strength to remember who is walking beside me.

Strength to remember who He is.

Strength to remember that my failures, mistakes, and sins—past and present—do not disqualify me from His love.

Strength to remember that Christ willingly suffered on the cross for me long before I ever faced this trial.

Some days my prayers are thoughtful.

Some days they are simply, “Lord, help me get through today.”

And somehow, that has been enough.

As this journey continues, I’ve come to another realization.

I don’t want to spend whatever time God gives me angry.

That doesn’t mean anger never shows up.

It does.

That doesn’t mean I never get frustrated.

I do.

But every day spent angry is a day I can never get back.

I’d rather spend my days loving my family.

Teaching my students.

Encouraging others.

Laughing with friends.

Watching sunsets over Table Rock Lake.

Serving where I can.

And appreciating the countless blessings that still surround me.

I’ve learned that joy is not the absence of problems.

Joy is choosing not to let your problems have the final word.

When I focus only on the difficulties, I find reasons to be discouraged.

When I stop, remember, and look at the bigger picture, I find reasons to be grateful.

And right now, gratitude seems like a much better way to live.