Burt and I sat in the oncologist’s office along with the surgeon at Mayo Clinic in Rochester. “To do nothing,” the surgeon said, quietly, “means you have a 2% chance of survival. With radiation and surgery, you have a 50-50 chance, and from a surgeon’s perspective, those are good odds.”
Burt slid his arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer and nodded to me with tear-filled eyes. I know my eyes reflected back my total fear and deep dread of radiation, but I nodded my consent much like a soldier would do when he surrenders in combat.
“You’ll have five weeks of daily radiation, followed by two weeks off to let your body recover prior to surgery,” the surgeon said. “Then, two mega doses of interoperative radiation.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I heard his words, but my brain refused to acknowledge them let alone process them. My time on the battlefield was set in motion. “Help me, Lord,” I whispered.
I remembered these words I read somewhere, “God can bring beauty to the battlefield.” How could that possibly be? I wondered.
Two months later after radiation, an 11-hour surgery with radiation, and 5 days in ICU, I was transferred to a real hospital room. It was a warm, sunny day and Burt was allowed to wheel me outside to a small park on the hospital campus. He braked my wheelchair and sat on the bench. We read his Bible together. “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness,” I read. (2 Corinthians 12:9)
I looked at the budding trees and the green grass. “I don’t know, Burt, I just feel I don’t have any purpose,” I sighed.
“You were created on purpose for a purpose,” he said, “and it doesn’t matter if you walk or are in a wheelchair.”
Just then a man walking his dog happened by. We chatted about his dog and then I asked, “What brings you to Rochester?”
“I’m here for testing and as yet, they don’t know what’s wrong.” He glanced at his dog and choked back his tears. “I have to get going,” he said. Then he did an unusual thing. He bent down and gave me a hug.
I sensed his hug was a desperate need to connect, so I asked, “Do you want us to pray for you?”
“Yes,” he replied, through unrestrained tears and sat down on the bench next to Burt. We joined hands and prayed for his medical needs. “Do you know Jesus?” I asked.
“I have my own ideas,” he said.
Burt and I told him that because God is holy and man is sinful, there can be no relationship between a holy God and sinful man. But because of God’s great love for mankind, He sent his only Son, Jesus, to come to earth in the flesh to die on the cross for the sins of the world, and whoever believes in Him, his sins would be forgiven, and he could be assured of going to heaven for eternity.
We talked for several minutes before he stood up, still weeping. He gave me another hug and shook Burt’s hand. “Before you go, could I ask what made you stop to talk to us?”
“You seemed like nice people,” He said, as he walked away.
Was it because I was in a wheelchair? And if I had not been in a wheelchair, would we not have had this opportunity to talk to the stranger? I wondered. It was then that I realized deep in my soul that God can use each one of us to reach out to others regardless of our physical, verbal, or any other ineptness we may have because His grace is sufficient.
I looked at Burt and smiled. “We just witnessed the beauty God can bring to the battlefield.”
“Yeah, and God’s grace is sufficient and His power is made perfect in our weakness, right?”
I nodded emphatically. “Yup.” I must accept what must be, and if I’m not walking with God when trials come, I miss the full measure of His power He has for all of us along the way. I’m still here; I’m still standing. God is good! And His grace is sufficient!
Sidenote: I use the seat of my walker as a place to hold my memory verses when I go for walks. If it weren’t for my walker, I would not memorize Scripture like I do with my walker! So even my walker is a blessing! Share your story with someone and the Scripture that was an encouragement to you. You will be blessed and so will the one with whom you share.