Just over two years ago I emerged from surgery to remove a tumor from my cerebellum. Scans had suggested that the tumor was contained, relatively easy to remove, and probably not malignant. I’d likely be back to regular life in a month, maybe two at the outside.
But the tumor was closer to the brainstem than the vagaries of an MRI could show. A surgery scheduled for four hours went nearly seven. The tumor was growing into the vagus nerve, the one that, among other things, runs the show in the throat. I couldn't swallow at all and could barely speak. I had terrible double vision, no sense of temperature or touch on the entire right side of my body, and my left hand was numb and clumsy like I had slept on it overnight. My balance was so bad that I couldn’t sit up, never mind walk. I had hiccups for 12 days, including a stretch when it was so bad I didn’t sleep for three days. After 43 days in the hospital, I finally went home and learned that the pathology of the tumor showed markers of both benign and malignant. I would need 30 radiation treatments.
I am grateful that two years later, the nerve damage, while not healed, is less pronounced. My voice is still unchanged, but I’m scheduled for a surgery that can possibly restore it; I’m a pastor, so having a working voice is an important tool. Even better, the most recent monitoring brain scan showed no evidence of the tumor. I’m grateful for my wife and family—relatives and church family—who have steadfastly walked with me. I’m grateful, too, for a long list of medical people who have helped save my life.
I am not among those who say that they are grateful for cancer because other parts of life, including their walk with God, have improved. My life was turned upside down. I wonder how this is supposed to bring glory to God. I wrestle with the question and answer of the Heidelberg Catechism that says sickness and health come to us not by chance but from God’s fatherly hand (Q&A 27). Am I so obtuse that God had to send cancer to teach me a lesson? Or, and I hardly dare to ask the question out loud, does God have no better strategy?
After one year, I have learned this much: obeying Jesus’ command to take up my cross daily is really hard. Jesus didn’t get into specifics when he gave that command. Surely he didn’t want us to be crucified; he did that once and for all and in our place.
Speaking for myself, I believe he was telling me I have to die to my supposed right to understand why this happened and die to my expectation that I get to know the recovery schedule. I have good reason to think the tumor is long gone, but this is cancer. I might have to face death a few decades earlier than I’ve always envisioned.
And other parts of my life must die. Since the day of my ordination 30 years ago, I've struggled to feel equal to my calling. I've felt like a child put in an adult's role. I've tried to make up for it by working hard—make one more visit, read one more book, take on one more task, never ask for a Sunday off. I trusted in my idol of hard work, reasoning that what I lack in quality I can make up in quantity. While second-guessing my work, I've always been kind of proud of being physically fit and looking 10 years younger than I am. I hope no one noticed, because I'm also kind of proud of being humble about it. I put a lot of trust in my ability to get along well with others and, frankly, remain likeable. Now I am quite happy to be alone because talking is exhausting and leaves me sore and dizzy.
One by one, my idols are proving their worthlessness. I'm left with nothing but the promise of God's grace. I've always trusted God's grace. I've also been glad for my own contributions to the work of God, some stored-up merit just in case God was disappointed with me and held back some of his grace. But now all the things of my own making—all my idols—are dead, or at least have one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.
Even so, I want to perform CPR on my idols; I have always known their worthlessness, but I managed to find comfort in them and part of me wants to return to them. I wish I could let them die. I wish I had deeper trust in God’s grace. But, by the Holy Spirit, I believe more than ever that even when I can’t offer God anything or hold onto him, he remains a loving Father who holds me for Jesus’ sake.
I told you all of that so that I can tell you this: the Father in heaven is trustworthy even when our faith and obedience wobble.
About the Author
Rev. Curtis Korver has served on four different committees assembled to help a pastor or church after a separation. The story told here is a composite of all four experiences. He serves a church in Port Alberni, B.C.