I have never been one for keeping a steady, consistent journal. But I am a pack rat, and hesitate to throw away anything that may have meaning some day. And so it was that when I began my usual New Year’s purge of paper, I stumbled across many items that brought a smile to my face or a tear to my eye. One such item was a Christmas letter I wrote in 1989 to thank those who had helped me survive my first fight with cancer.

A View from the Room

Cancer. Six little letters that strike fear and anguish into the human heart. I had never thought much about mortality — not in the way that a teenager truly feels immortal, but from the perspective that everyone in my family leads full lives well into their eighties. Funny how a little lump can change all that.

I remember raging at God in the privacy of my car while driving the thirty miles of Route 78 after the aspiration did not overturn my deepest fears. My wonderful son, only eight years old, did not deserve to lose his mother. Nor did he deserve to have cancer intrude into the joy of his young life. It just wasn’t fair! I was furious at God and I did not hesitate to tell Him.

The weeks leading up to the surgery were taut with tension. I was having surgery I did not want for an illness I did not want at a location I did not want. But I knew that my choice of surgeon was right and I followed reluctantly.

My hospital room was as nice as one could ask. Situated in the new building of Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, it was light, airy and with a view that would have commanded a very high rent in a residential building.  My roommate was a strong and lovely woman, lines of wisdom etched on her ebony face. On the morning of my surgery, she told me not to miss the beauty of the sunrise. The window faced west, I noted, and the sun rose in the east.  How was I to see the sun rise? She smiled a patient smile.

The view from the hospital room was that of the Hudson River and New Jersey. The sun, as it rose in the east, reflected off the windows of the high-rises of Fort Lee. Shades of yellow and orange bounced and sparkled from the buildings, and, as time progressed and the sun rose to a higher angle, the light danced from the windows to the waters of the river, spreading color and beauty in its wake.

What a powerful message! I learned that one does not have to see the sun to know its glory, just as one does not need to see the Son to know His Glory.  For that love reflects from His disciples just as the sunbeams reflected from the water and the glass. My Lord was with me and would provide me strength and would allow me to shine like a beacon to strengthen others.

My lesson did not end here. On the night before my discharge, I was so excited that I could not sleep. In the stillness of my room, I walked to the window to view the never-sleeping city below.  As I gazed out, I looked to the George Washington Bridge. Cars were streaming back and forth across the bridge despite the lateness of the hour.  But the cables were not there! The peaks of the suspension had disappeared, shrouded in fog.  Yet the bridge supported its traffic.

Herein lay the message.  One does not have to see God to know that He is there to support and strengthen, just as I did not need to see the bridge’s braces to know that the cars would not fall down.  A smile spread across my face and I lay down to a peaceful sleep.

Cancer still angers me. Unfairness still angers me.  But life excites me. And I know that I do not walk alone, that my Lord is with me every step of the way. He never promised that life would be fair or comfortable; He just promised that He would be there to help us through. And He asks that we help Him in His work, strengthening those who have not yet been able to see the view from the room.

And I just celebrated my 31st birthday!! Thanks be to God.

I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.
John 16:33 ESV