I liked Plan A

I think that’s important to say right up front.

For the last several months, I believed we were doing pretty well. Surgery. Radiation. Chemotherapy. Optune. Appointments. Bloodwork. Scans. There were plenty of hard days mixed in there, but there was a plan.

And I trusted the plan.

Then I started having some of the same symptoms I had before I was first diagnosed. We went back for another scan, and this time they saw swelling and some tumor regrowth.

So now, another surgery is scheduled for Friday.

And after surgery, we’re changing the treatment plan.

The chemotherapy we were using didn’t work as well as we had hoped. There is another drug available, so we’re going to give that one a chance.

Plan B.

I don’t particularly like those words.

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The Second String

Months ago, I wrote about a book called The Line.

The story followed two quarterbacks competing for the same job — the A-string quarterback and the B-string quarterback.

At the time, what stuck with me most was the line.

Touch the line.

When you’re tired and running drills, you don’t get to stop a few feet short. You don’t get to move the line because the run got hard. You run all the way through it.

That lesson stuck with me enough that I’ve written about it more than once.

But something funny has happened.

I’m thinking about The Line again.

Only this time, I’m not thinking about the line.

I’m thinking about the second-string quarterback.

I guess that’s because right now it feels like we’re calling the second-string treatment into the game.

The chemotherapy drug we started with didn’t work as well as we had hoped, so after surgery, we’re changing drugs.

We’re calling another player off the sideline.

Plan B.

And if I’m being completely truthful, that bothers me.

Nobody wants to hear that Plan A didn’t work the way everyone hoped.

I liked Plan A.

I knew Plan A.

I had gotten comfortable with Plan A.

And somewhere along the way, I think I started believing that as long as I worked hard enough, prayed hard enough, stayed positive enough and kept touching the line, Plan A would work.

But that’s not what happened.

The course changed.

I’m still willing to run.

I’m just disappointed that the course changed.

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Why Have a Second String?

But I’ve been thinking about something else.

Why does a football team have a second-string quarterback in the first place?

He’s not there because the coach expects the starter to fail.

He’s there because the coach knows something the players sometimes forget:

The season is bigger than one player.

Things happen.

Players get hurt. Defenses adjust. Game plans change. Sometimes the guy whose job was to stand on the sideline suddenly hears his number called.

And when that happens, he isn’t some random guy they found in the parking lot.

He’s already on the roster.

He’s been practicing.

He’s been preparing.

He was part of the plan all along.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been getting wrong about Plan B.

I’ve been treating it like the plan we came up with because Plan A failed.

Maybe that’s true from my perspective.

But I’m starting to wonder if God even has a Plan B.

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My Plan B. God’s Plan A.

I’ve spent a lot of time over these past several months trying to understand what God is doing.

I still don’t.

And I’m becoming increasingly comfortable admitting that.

I don’t know why the first treatment didn’t work the way we hoped.

I don’t know why I need another surgery.

I don’t know why the course changed.

But I do know this:

None of this surprised God.

Friday isn’t circled on His calendar with a question mark beside it.

He didn’t see the scan and suddenly have to figure out what to do next.

What feels like Plan B to me may have been part of His Plan A all along.

That’s a difficult thing for me to write because I’d really prefer that God’s Plan A looked more like mine.

Mine involved getting better.

Getting stronger.

Getting back on the mat.

Getting back to work.

Getting back to normal.

Apparently, I don’t get to draw the course.

I just have to run it.

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Touch the Line

Which brings me right back to where I started months ago.

Touch the line.

I understand that lesson differently now.

Touching the line doesn’t mean everything works out the way I planned.

It doesn’t mean that if I run hard enough, God owes me the outcome I want.

It means I run the course He puts in front of me.

Even when the course changes.

Even when I’m tired.

Even when I’m disappointed.

Even when the second-string quarterback has to come into the game.

So that’s what I’m going to do.

Friday, I’ll go back into surgery.

When I come out, we’ll start figuring out what comes next.

If that means a different chemotherapy drug, we’ll run that play.

If the course changes again, we’ll adjust again.

But I’m not moving the line.

I’m not stopping five yards short because this isn’t the course I wanted.

I’m going to run the course they put in front of me.

I’m going to touch the line.

Again.

And I’m going to trust that what looks like Plan B from where I’m standing may have been God’s Plan A all along.

Building Champions in Life.