At my age?

March 31, 2011


Okay, the cancer scare has faded and I didn’t get much out of it, unless you count the euphoria of the positive outcome and the opportunity to explore melodrama. I have now transitioned into contemplating the transformative power of surgery. Why is it taking so long to get over a little six-inch incision and the removal of one of my psychologically necessary organs?

It has been four and one half weeks since the assault on my self-identity and I am doing pretty well. It is really true, you can live with just one. What I am struggling with is the slow healing process. I blame it on the doctors; they have consistently spoken negative words into my spirit for the past decade or so. It all started when I broke my collar bone. Grimacing through the 15-on-a-scale- of-10 pain, I smiled and asked the pert ER physician how long it would take to heal. She responded with the first volley of recurring negativity, “If you were a young man, I’d say six weeks, but at your age it’s hard to tell.”

My doctor for this latest adventure in healthcare must have used the “at your age” insult four or five times. “At your age, the tissue might be a little stringy making it difficult to cut through without some permanent damage to the nerve that controls your bladder.” (In truth, it was the nerve that controls feeling in the inner thigh. Incontinence was never a possibility, at least not one he mentioned.) And of course, “You should be back to normal in 6 to 8 weeks, except at your age it could take a little longer.”

These prophets of prolonged suffering have hindered my faith and thereby extended my period of recovery. Or, could it be I’m milking it for all I can get out of it?

Actually, I am doing well. Some days I feel very healthy. But I have a tendency to overdo it on those days and pay for it for a few days thereafter. Tuesday was one of those great days climaxed by a less-than-stellar display of my wisdom. I got home and the task was simple, separate some of my cows and move them to a different area for a romantic rendezvous with the bull. All went well until they rushed past the electric fence which was buried under a downed tree.

It should have been a simple application of leverage to move the decaying section of the trunk which appeared to be broken. But just as I reached the point of no return in my upward lift I realized the core of the trunk was still in tack, demanding that I follow through or risk being hurt by its collapse on me. There was a little too much pull on my abdomen. I didn’t feel any pain, but I felt the pull none-the-less. By the time I got to the house I knew I would need an extra Ibuprofen that night. What I didn’t expect was pain the next day and a general sick feeling. And so, I have been doing what I have to do and propping my feet up as much as possible.

I am confident I didn’t seriously hurt anything. What bothers me is that “at my age” recovery is taking its own sweet time. How dare he say I might have stringy tissue?

What Backdrop?

March 29, 2011


Yesterday was one month to the day since I had my surgery. It was a full day at the seminary. I had a committee meeting at 9:00 A.M. followed by a consultation with a faculty member. We had a longer than usual lunch with Cheryl’s nephew, Josh, and his wife, Bethany. They had been with us for the weekend. Josh preached on Sunday evening. After lunch I had an advising session with a student. That was followed by another committee meeting, followed by another consultation with a faculty member, followed by a SKYPE session with my online class, followed by a church staff meeting at our house.

When I got home I made a sandwich out of Sunday leftovers and gulped it down as the staff was arriving. As we were getting started with the staff meeting I began to feel ill. My evening meds/supplements were not sitting well with my sandwich. While each member of the staff shared about current events in their ministries I became increasingly aware of all that was going on at our church. As we looked at the calendar I realized I missed my allergy shots this month. My brain began to bounce around all of the things I am behind in at church, at the seminary, in my volunteer work, and around the house. A mild panic set in as I realized my extended cancer vacation was over.

After the staff meeting I retreated to the basement and attempted to unwind by continuing a project to gather and organize my digital photos. I have thousands taken over the last decade and hundreds more scanned into files on various old computer hard disks, CD’s and DVD’s. It is a project I started during my forced vacation. My unwinding became knots in my back as the various CD’s didn’t want to transfer their precious cargo into my new external hard drive.

Sometime before midnight it hit me; my life is just as complicated post cancer as it was pre-cancer. One of my resolutions in the early days of my diagnosis was that I was going to simplify my life; I was going to withdraw from commitments that didn’t clearly fit into the heart of God’s call on my life. I was going to be focused. Being focused seems easy when you think you might only have 24 to 48 months to live. But as the month progressed, my prognosis keep getting better and better. My easy out vanished. My irrefutable excuse for resigning from previous commitments dissipated into the atmosphere of probable good health. And I felt good; I was going to live!

Yesterday, the hope of long life took an inevitable turn. I am going to live and now I have to play catch-up. I am so behind in every area of my life. I haven’t even healed completely and I am playing catch-up.

When I went to bed after mid-night, I further reflected on my current state. My new backdrop for living is a blank curtain. No one has drawn beautiful scenery for me act out my life against. I am on stage, performing the same old lines from the drama of my life and the backdrop has gone blank. That old backdrop had all my cues neatly scribbled in; it was my cheat-sheet on how to respond in the various roles I played. Cancer has not given me a new backdrop painted with brilliant scenes of a more focused life. I am not starring in a new play; I am going to have to be the prop manager and artist who re-sets the scenes of my life. I have to design and paint the backdrop against which I live.

I am thankful the old backdrop is gone, although it remains a shadow on the new. It too dull and routine and contained too many scenes of disappointment. I had become a faithful, generative, survivor. (Thank you, Professor Eric Erickson.) My character was somewhat stale in its own drama. There was little imagination or creativity left. The critics might rightly have renamed me Mr. Do-the-Right-Thing While-You-Wait-On-Retirement.

And so here I am. Nothing has changed in my life; everything has changed in my life. Cancer has not thrust me into a new Off-Broadway hit. It has not afforded me the opportunity to start over. I am living in the same drama with the same cast of loved-ones, friends, and arch villains (wouldn’t you like to know who they are?). My challenge is what it always has been, or should have been, paint the backdrop against which I want to live my life, one scene at a time. The difference may be as simple as not taking life for granted, be an actor who writes his own script rather than merely reading the one handed to him.

If all this sounds mellow-dramatic, I admit it is. The change that is taking place within me will probably go unnoticed by all but my closest friends. But maybe, just maybe, I’ll surprise you.

Josh and Bethany Visit

We were blessed to have Cheryl's nephew Joshua Bridges and his wife Bethany visit over the weekend.  Josh preached for us Sunday evening. I was  great and anointed message with a wonderful response by the congregation.  The are a choice young couple that gives me hope for the future of the church.

Harris's Visit

It was great to have my sister Darlene and her family to stop by on their way home from vacation and spend the night with us.  Alex is a real charmer.

Thanks Be to God

I saw my doctor yesterday to hear my detailed pathology report and begin discussing a treatment plan. God is so good to me. Dr. Thacker said my type of cancer is very rare (spermatocytic seminoma). They are confident they got it all through the surgery and there is no need for any other treatment. I will have a CT scan and other tests in six months just to make sure. To God be all glory, honor, and praise.

I had gone to bed Wednesday evening and awakened Thursday morning with the same nervous feeling. It was that feeling I use to get in Junior High PE class when we were picking teams. “When will I get chosen? I know I will not be first, but please don’t let me be last.” I had plenty of faith the prognosis would center on a very high probability of survival and complete recovery. I was nervous that the cancer had metastasized and would require radiation therapy. I didn’t want the sickness that went with that treatment; neither did I want to live with the possibility that radiation therapy could cause other types of cancer to emerge. I was holding on to the hope it was stage one and I might be given the option of waiting to see if it had metastasized. That would require scans ever three months for a couple of years and less frequent scans after that. I wanted to be picked first in this game of life or death.

As my doctor gave his report it just kept getting better and better. My cancer is so rare they don’t even have a protocol for when to do follow-up scans. “We’ll say six months, if that’s all right with you.” If hearing for the first time that you have cancer is surreal, hearing such a phenomenal report is equally so. It was like winning the door prize when you have never won anything in your life. As he unfolded the layers of good news the thought kept bouncing around in my brain “this must be a good feeling for Dr. Thacker.” He has never had a case of spermatocytic seminoma. I wondered how many times he had given a bad prognosis. I could see a hint of excitement deep in his eyes and in the ever-so-slight smile on his face. It was as if he was playing his own internal game of wearing a doctor’s poker face, the one they begin teaching on the first day of classes in medical school, circa “Patch Adams.” “We’re going to educate the humanity right out of you and make you into scientists.” I was contrasting his calm demeanor during the bad news of my office visit exactly two weeks and six days earlier with that of this day. There was a difference, and I was glad for it; it made his words ring with the tone of truth.

I was also carefully monitoring Cheryl. She sat across the small examining room with notepad and pen in hand as if attending a lecture by some prominent scholar. She didn’t want to miss anything important so we could do our research when we got home. She doesn’t wear a poker face, but neither does she show much expression in times like these. It is more like she had slipped into the persona of being a graduate student discerning what might be on the qualifying exams so as to take the notes in the best way possible for future study. It is not enough to take notes; you have to take good notes. Her relief was seen more in her body language than on her face. She relaxed, sat up a little straighter, and just seemed more open and free.

As for me, I was competing with Dr. Thacker for the best dispassionate demeanor. I can be just as calm, cool, and collected and he. I lost. I could feel the smile cracking open no matter how dispassionate I wanted to appear. I shifted gears and tried to look confident, sort of, “I’m a man of faith. I knew this is what you were going to say all along.” Mostly my thoughts were prayers of thanksgiving and awe. Why is God so good to me? Others are more deserving, but that is why it is called grace.

I am confident this encounter with cancer has indeed painted a new backdrop against which I will live my life for quite some time. What is not clear is exactly what is painted on that canvas in my soul. The power of backdrops is not their artistic beauty but their ability to set a scene. They can set a tone and create an ambiance, but it is what is done in front of them that captivates the audience. May my life now be lived as one who knows better than ever the beauty and power of God’s love for us all?

Reflections on Having Cancer

In my brief journey with cancer I have discovered a few things about pain, discouragement, and the backdrops against which we live our lives. One thing I have learned is that pain demands our full attention. In the days following my surgery a great deal of effort was required to avoid pain. A sneeze or cough triggered a searing, tearing scream inside the region of my body being held together by internal stitches. Sitting down or standing demanded the skills of a surgeon and the patience of a Zen Master. During that first week I was keenly aware of a peace God had given me, but I was also aware my pain was one of the instruments of that peace. I was not concerned with having cancer. The mental energy siphoned off by the pain left little resources for self-pity. As long as every twitch might result in that searing pain, there was little room to contemplate my pending prognosis and treatment options. I discovered pain to be an analgesic for fear and depression. Pain is ironically a direct link to life and the desire to live. I recognize there is a point of unbearable pain that demands an end to the pain even if that means the termination of life, but pain wed to the hope of an end to pain intensifies the desire for abundant, pain-free life.

A second thing I have discovered is that a life-and-death crises is a powerful tool for transforming the backdrop of our soul, the stage upon which we live our lives. I cannot say with certainty, but I have a strong sense the old is passing away and a new vision of who I am is emerging. The shock of cancer is moving my focus from a present that is overloaded with thoughts of what must be done and a past burdened with some thoughts of what might have been to the future that lies before me. What can I do with the remainder of my life however long it might be? Don’t get me wrong, at this point I am very optimistic about having a very long life, but cancer has refocused how I see the present and the future.

It may be true that you can only live in the present, but you will live toward the past, the present, or the future. Pain and disappointment incline the soul toward the past, ever longing that things had been different. Responsibilities and/or self-centeredness incline the soul toward the now, seeking a sense of fulfillment or momentary satisfactions and pleasures. Hope tilts the soul toward the future, creating dreams of possibilities and refreshing the currency of eternity.

I long ago learned through experience and observation that pain and disappointment if left unchecked will lead to despair. Once despair has taken hold bitterness, while not inevitable, ever beckons like the sirens of ancient lore from the rocks along depression’s shore. If by grace one rejects the lure of the deceptive and chooses life over death, there remains the struggle to return to the voyage. Once locked in the battle to sail back out to sea away from certain destruction the storm itself might become the universe, the backdrop against which we live and from which we cannot seem to escape. Life is there constrained by the struggle to survive, to produce, to provide, to protect and that without the luxury of the hope of ever arriving at a calm and plenteous port. In short, it is all too easy to allow the responsibilities and disappointments of life to define our reality. Perhaps I am merely describing the melodrama known as middle adulthood.

Into the routinized tempest of my life has come a single word, “cancer,” a Cyclops from the deep that has plucked me out of the familiar struggles of rowing against the wind and planted my feet on a different battlefield. This is an altogether dissimilar struggle, one that redefines my very existence, shocks me out of my compulsion to live viz-a-viz past disappointments and present responsibilities. In this new arena I am forced into an all-together different present, one that peels the mask off of the urgent and puts the spot light on the important. Yes, the threat of cancer to shorten life calls forth a new opportunity to fully live toward the future.

For good and/or evil, cancer is now the backdrop against which I live my life. I am strangely thankful for this new drama. It is like starting over, only now the finish line is within sight. Responsibilities, disappointments, and daily routines may have robbed me of the full aroma of life without my even being aware of it. My attention may have been too much on that which was pressing and that which was passing away. Now the stakes are infinitely higher. All that has gone before was but training for this part I now play. I once again get to fight against despair. Midlife may indeed limit our hopes to merely surviving, to one day being known as having overcome. I strangely find myself now in a different place; I am renewed and cannot be satisfied with any label less than being now “more than a conqueror.”

Tomorrow, I will receive a detailed pathology report, a prognosis, and a proposed treatment plan. I am hopeful to hear it was stage one seminoma and that they believe they got it all. No other treatment is recommended at this time. That would be a great gift from God. If it is so, I will still ever be conscious of my new identity. If it is not so, I am still determined to be victorious in the manner I fight this fight.

CT Scan

I had my CT scan this morning.  I will not know the results until Thursday.  Cheryl arrived home this evening.

Cancer Scare: Entry Two

March 4


The week had been uneventful, if you don’t count the searing sensation of pulling internal stitches each time I sat down or stood up. Cheryl left Wednesday morning to be with Karisa during the birth of our third grandchild, Tegan Margaret Smith. Without a doubt, the worst part of this week was not being able to be with Karisa on the day of Tegan’s birth (Thursday, March 3) and that joined with regret about causing her stress. My brother-in-law, Mike Landers, drove up Wednesday evening from Woodstock, Georgia to assist me. He was a big help. The next day he drove me to the seminary for my afternoon class. My sister, Shirley, came up from Woodstock that evening and stayed with me until Sunday evening.

I didn’t hear from my doctor so I called his office at 3:00 P.M. on Friday; I was told he would call me back. I took a nap late that afternoon. Shirley awoke me at 6:00 P.M. for me to talk with Dr. Thacker who was calling. He had gotten a preliminary pathology report. I had seminoma, but they were not certain of the sub-type. It was definitely not lymphoma. Seminoma usually presents itself around the age of 40. Mine was an unusual case that was requiring longer to examine in order to determine any abnormalities. He would call me during the next week when he received the final report. Typical treatment for seminoma would be radiation of the lower abdomen and pelvic area without any chemo. This type of cancer responds well to radiation.

He released me for travel to Wheaton when I felt up to it. His staff would schedule a CT scan for early the next week. I was relieved but also disappointed. I felt God had acted in the diagnosis, seminoma and not lymphoma. But the calm certainty was waning.

When I took the phone call I discovered my brother, Jimmy, and his wife, Iris, were up stairs. I knew they were coming but I wasn’t certain of the hour. They stayed until Sunday morning. We had a great time talking, playing games, and putting out hay (I supervised, Shirley drove the tractor, Jimmy ruined his shoes).



March 7, 2011

Jimmy and Iris left late on Sunday morning after we put the hay out; Shirley left late Sunday after doing the laundry. I was alone for the first time since my surgery. I slept fine during the night except that I awoke around 6:00 A.M. with some discomfort. While I waited on the Advil to kick in, I watched a little TV. I went back to sleep and awoke around 8:30. I decided to drive up to Wheaton. The trip was challenging. I thought briefly about turning around in Knoxville. In Louisville it crossed my mind I might have to call Cheryl and Johnmark to meet me in northern Indiana, but with some seat adjustments I was able to drive to Wheaton. It was worth it. Tegan is priceless and it was a great relief to see Karisa; she is a great mother.



March 8, 2011

Thoughts on Having Cancer

I have three goals for dealing with my cancer. The first goal is complete deliverance. I want to be healed and live a long and productive life. I want to see my grand-children grow into mighty servants of the Lord and their children born with the favor of God upon them. I want to die from something other than cancer. I believe “divine healing is provided for all in the atonement.” Jesus conquered death, hell, and the grave. But I know that victory over death requires being joined to Christ in His suffering and death. The path to healing passes through the valley of the shadow death and self denial.

Second, I want to be a faithful servant of Christ is this battle with disease. I want to be a witness to Him in the manner I face this trial. I want to live life to the fullest even as I face my own mortality. I pray the joy of my salvation dances on the table top of my soul even as I fight the fight of faith. I want others to know there is a living hope and an eternal glory hidden in this vessel of sod.

Third, I want to milk it for all I can. There has to be some set of perks for having cancer. How about bonus AARP discounts for those with a confirmed diagnosis? They could put a special logo on our membership cards. A “no waiting” line at Disney World seems reasonable? And I already sense fatigue rising and falling on the schedule of faculty meetings. Just think about all the cool things I can purchase for myself without having to justify them. (I am going to miss those creative juices that flow when I am building the case that I need something I really, really, really want.) A Goldwing may never be a necessity, but I can now see one in my future.

Cancer Scare

[I typically use this blog for family updates and pictures.  I will continue to do so, but I thought it the better place to report on my cancer.  What follows is an edited version of my journal.]

It always happens to someone else, at least until now. Cancer is the penultimate enemy, the fraternal twin to death. At a cellular level life reaches out and grabs for more than God intended. Uncontrolled growth leads to the inevitable, death.

My journey through this valley began just before midnight on Christmas Eve, 2010. I was preparing for bed and noticed my right testicle was enlarged. My self-examination revealed no noticeable lumps. During the next few days I did some on-line research and discovered (1) testicular cancer was rare in my age bracket – there are benefits to being old, (2) the most likely cause for the swelling would be epididymitis, and (3) other causes might be over doses of some vitamins and minerals. Since I have been on a variety of vitamins and minerals as prescribed by various doctors and friends, I decided to immediately eliminate everything except my prescriptions for high blood pressure and high cholesterol and look for changes as we moved through the holidays.

January was quite busy. I monitored the condition. There was some soreness and discomfort, but no real pain and no apparent change. By the end of the month it was obvious I needed to see a doctor. For years I had used a walk-in clinic, but I had already gotten some referrals for an internist or family practitioner. Cheryl went through my list and contacted Dr. Dennis Thompson. I went in to see him on the third day of February. He found no palpable lumps and suggested it was probably epididymitis. He did lab work on my urine (slightly elevated protein), took several vials of blood to be sent off to a lab, prescribed an antibiotic, prescribed an ultrasound, and made an appointment for me with Dr. Thacker, an urologist.

February 25

I saw Dr. Thacker two days later. He examined me and concurred with Dr. Thompson’s preliminary diagnosis and treatment. He had already received some of the results from the blood work and the markers for cancer were negative. He made an appointment for three weeks later to follow up on the effects of the antibiotics. He advised me not to expect the swelling to go down rapidly. He felt an ultrasound was not yet warranted.

The hospital began calling about scheduling the ultrasound prescribed by Dr. Thompson a week later. In light of Dr. Thacker’s observation I was in no hurry to call them back and so I waited until I was close to finishing the antibiotic regimen. As those two weeks progressed I could tell the treatment was making no difference in my condition. My thoughts fluctuated between (1) it must be a viral infection and therefore non-responsive to antibiotics, (2) Dr. Thacker had said it would take several weeks after the antibiotics for the swelling to go completely down, and (3) this is something more serious, i.e., cancer. I had a recurring concern that I was going to miss the birth of Karisa’s baby because I would be in the hospital having my testicle removed.

I had the ultrasound on February 23 and I could tell the technician was seeing something that needed special attention. When he finished I commented “I suppose you are not allowed to tell me anything.” He responded that he couldn’t but that he could get me a disk of the images. I got the feeling he thought I should look at them. He had earlier, during the test, asked who my urologist was and commented that Dr. Thacker was very good. I knew the visit with Thacker was not going to be good.

February 25

On Friday I went to see Dr. Thacker. He examined me and commented that the antibiotics had had no effect. I told him I had gotten the ultrasound and that I had brought the disk with the images. He looked at them and pointed out some troubling images including comparisons between the two testicles. He then spoke and said “Looking at these I have to tell you this appears to me to be cancer. Please wait here while I talk with the radiologist.” He went out, made the call and returned. The radiologist agreed. The protocol was to remove the testicle. He asked what I was doing early the next week. I told him my daughter was having a baby in Wheaton, Illinois but that I wasn’t scheduled to go up until the weekend. He said he didn’t think I should wait until I got back and that if we did it on Monday he might release me to travel by the weekend.

Just to be candid I am not certain which set of words were most troubling: “this appears to me to be cancer” or “remove the testicle.” My only question was why a biopsy was not warranted? He explained that one of the goals would be to keep any cancer cells from spilling into the scrotum. Removing the whole testicle was the best prophylactic against that. I did ask about treatments and he said that varied greatly depending on the type of cancer. In the best case scenario the surgery would be all that was needed. If it was a lymphoma there would be chemotherapy and possibly radiation. He referred to lymphoma two or three times leaving me with the impression that was what he thought it was. On the other hand, he may have been just covering his bases or preparing me for the worst possibility.

My sister Shirley and her husband Mike had arrived in town for a visit while I was at Dr. Thacker’s office. Even though I anticipated bad news I didn’t expect an immediate action. While they killed time at the house I went to the hospital for pre-admittance paperwork and tests (blood work, x-rays). They tried to comfort us and they took us out to eat for dinner. They are the best example of family and of friendship. I did not want the news out until I received a more definitive diagnosis. I asked Shirley to call my brother and other sister and let them know.

February 26

Saturday was a roller coaster ride. We did research on the web. Adding “lymphoma” to the query produced different results than just “testicular cancer.” The prognosis for lymphoma is not good but varies greatly depending on the type and there are about fifty types. I found myself bouncing between responses. This is the end; what should I try to get done in the next 24 months. Denial, we still don’t really know anything. I think we have caught it early; I very well could have a normal life after treatment. I began sorting through what this meant for all the things I wanted to do for Christ. My focus was on the various writing projects I have already outlined. I resolved to drop other involvements in order to focus on those things I knew God had called me to do.

Jimmy called me and shared that he had been called to prayer for someone in our family throughout the day on Friday. He inquired about how I was dealing with the news and encouraged me that God was at work for me. I am so thankful for my family and encouraged to know they hear God and respond to his call.

I don’t think I can describe the experience of having a doctor tell me I have cancer. It was surreal. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross famously identified the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I entered that world not as stages but as simultaneous dimensions of my existence. It was as if I heard the word “cancer” with its multiple layers of nuance engaging multiple aspects of my being. The cold and rational side of me thought “don’t be shocked; you knew it was a possibility; after all you were the first to bring up the subject.” In a parallel universe denial responded, “he didn’t say what he just said; he was confident last time it wasn’t cancer.” Before he uttered the second syllable of the cursed word I was bargaining, “this is just a wake-up call; I will get my priorities worked out and God will take care of this.” In the midst of it all I kept hearing myself, “don’t panic, don’t over react; keep a clear head.” And I did.



February 27

Sunday, February 27 was a glorious day.

By mid-afternoon on Saturday I had traversed the dark chasm of internet information on lymphoma. I was working through scenarios of how I might focus my time if the prognosis was bad. I had a moderate sense of peace and I turned my attention to the church bulletin and Sunday services. My sermon prep was poor at best but I felt confident none-the-less.

On Sunday morning I decided to share my situation with the elders, deacons, prayer team, and staff. I gathered three or four at a time between Sunday school and worship and after the service. My presentation was matter-of-fact and included a request for prayer. During prayer time I mentioned I had a “situation” for which I needed prayer without any clarification. The prayer team asked to pray for me and anoint me with oil, an uncommon but not rare event. During the prayer, Jacqueline Smith, who was visiting in preparation for being our guest speaker the next Sunday, told me the Lord wanted her to share with me something He has told her that week. She had asked why we do not see miracles like happened in the New Testament. God spoke and asked her, “Jackie, do you know what a miracle is?” She replied that she thought so and He continued. “A miracle is just Me restoring My creation to what I intended it to be.” She continued, “Pastor, God wants you to know that; a miracle is just God restoring His creation.”

I felt God’s presence and peace as I preached. Immediately after the service Renee Bauman came to me and said, “Pastor, while you were up front God spoke to me and told me to tell you He isn’t through with you yet.” She had no idea about my diagnosis or even that I was ill. I accepted that word as a word from God, but I wasn’t confident what it meant. I had wanted a “slay-me-in-the Spirit-raise-me-up-whole” kind of miracle. I didn’t want to have my testicle removed. God could heal me, restore my testicle to its proper size and let the doctors witness to God’s grace and power.

That afternoon Cheryl suggested she would like to have Doug Slocumb, our friend and co-worker, to sit with her during the surgery. He is the closest person we have as a pastor. I called and he agreed.



February 28

We arrived at the hospital at 7:15 A.M.. Doug pulled in right behind us and we walked into the building together. Sang-Ehil and Min Han were already there. Min is on our prayer team and Sang-Ehil is a close co-worker and church member. I wasn’t expecting them but I was happy to see them.

I was in a room and in a gown by 7:30. We soon discovered the surgery would not be until 9:30. Cheryl stepped out and invited the Hans to spend a little time with me. We visited a little and they asked to pray for me. Min went to the foot of the gurney, knelt and took my left foot in her hand. She prayed in Korean. I sensed a special presence of God. My eyes were closed but as she prayed the room became lighter and lighter. I knew it was the glory of God. A deep peace settled over me and I knew everything was going to be Okay no matter what happened. That peace and calm assurance remained throughout the week that followed.

After the Hans left, Cheryl and Doug returned and sat with me. Doug prayed a beautiful pastoral prayer as well. When they came to get me I remember rolling down the hall but I was out before we got to the room. When I awoke I was back in my pre-op room; the surgery was over. Cheryl said Dr. Thacker had said everything went well. A short time later he entered and told me the same. He gave me some instructions and promised to call me when the pathology report came in, but it would be at least three days.

Before long I was up and on my way to the bathroom. You must be ambulatory and you must pee before they send you home. By mid-afternoon I was snug in my easy chair. Then the fun began. Once the pain medication had worn off and I was dependent on the prescribed hydrocodon, I discovered the joys of getting into and out of a chair after surgery.

Family Visit

Cheryl left on Wednesday to be with Karisa for the birth of Tegan.  I am at home recovering from a medical procedure (more to come).  Thanks to my family for coming up to help me recuperate.  Mike was here Wednesday evening and Thursday (no picture).  Shirley came on Thursday evening and is with me until now.  Jimmy and Iris came on Friday and left this morning.