Sharing Magazine

One More River

by Rev. Barbara Ward

   It was late afternoon on a cold, bleak February Day. I sat alone on a chair beside the window of a physician’s examining room, waiting for the mammography radiologist to come in. I had received a telephone summons for an after-hours appointment to get the results of recent biopsies on my left breast. I was more calm than scared, for I had spent a week soaked in prayers, my own prayers, as well as those of my family and friends. I was confident that the prayers had been answered, and that I was the recipient of one of God’s healing miracles. How could such faith be denied? Besides, I had already been healed of a heart attack and open heart surgery (quadruple by-pass). Dear God, I thought, surely that was enough! Never-the-less, I was aware of a wiggling sensation of fear in my stomach.
My fears were substantiated when my doctor entered the room with a serious expression on her face and tears in her eyes. "This is the part of my work that I hate," she said, looking me in the eye kindly. "The lump is malignant. We need to make an appointment for you with a surgeon right away."
     Although the news was disappointing, I was amazed and deeply grateful, and comforted by her open compassion. She offered me the opportunity to sit quietly for as long as I needed to absorb the unwelcome news. My immediate thought was of my mother sitting in the waiting room. I had brought her along, afraid to leave her alone at home because she was now living with me and suffering from aggressive dementia. I mentioned my concern to the doctor who assured me that she would send her nurse out to ‘chat’ with my mother while I took the time to process the facts concerning my medical condition.
     After the doctor left the room I tried to follow her suggestion, attempting to think…and to breathe. Neither was easy to do. My only thought was that I could not go through another life-threatening illness and surgery. I simply did not have the strength to do so and take care of my mother too. "Oh God, help me!" was the desperate cry of my soul.
     As I sat alone in the sterile whiteness of the examining room, I recalled the time years before when I had lain in a hospital bed after experiencing a "break-down"; a "burnout" caused by a lifetime of living in fear, trying to be a perfect daughter, wife, minister’s wife, mother, teacher, choir director...a perfect Christian. Having been raised in a very conservative church where "Hell and Damnation" sermons were preached with regularity, I was convinced that I had to strive for perfection or go to hell. Since it was my desire to go to Heaven, I worked diligently towards that goal. However, I tried to do so in my own strength, which proved sadly insufficient for the task, and I had ended up in the hospital instead.
     My salvation came one day as I lay connected to life-sustaining tubes and staring at a crucifix hanging on the wall in front of my Catholic hospital bed. I had been lead to believe that Roman Catholicism was a heretical religion. Never-the-less, the longer I gazed at the symbol, so foreign to me, the more I was drawn to it. It seemed to grow larger and reach out to me, reminding me of the sweet story of Jesus’ crucifixion I had learned as a child, and I began to pray. "Dear Jesus, Great Physician, I have failed. My faith has been weak. Please send me from my repository of many scripture verses I memorized in Sunday School, a verse that will help me get well."
     Imagine my shock when, quickly, the verse came: "In all things give thanks," Thessalonians 5:18. I wanted to cry out, "God you don’t understand. I don’t feel at all thankful right now. I think you meant that verse for someone else!" Then the healing miracle came. What I heard was the voice of Jesus, assuring me that God loved me and forgave me. Transfixed by the sight of the crucifix, with its sculpted figure of my Lord dying in agony on the cross, I began to understand for the first time in my life, that he had endured the shame, the pain and the undeserved, horrible death for ME, the woman who had obeyed the rules, but had never learned to trust God to direct her life. A great flood of thankfulness welled up from my heart and rose up to embrace the crucifix. I prayed for forgiveness and I immediately felt redeemed, washed in the blood of Christ; free from fear and guilt. 
     It was later that I realized the miracle of healing had happed on Good Friday, the day of crucifixion. My doctor removed all the tubes from my body on Easter Sunday, and I went home the following day, committed to living a new life in the strength of the Lord. Remembering the hospital experience of new birth gave me courage as I sat in the physician’s office seeking to accept her diagnosis, and to face my latest test of faith.
     Cancer is a word that strikes terror in the heart, no matter how strong one’s faith. As I gazed out at the darkness of the fast approaching evening and the clinic parking lot, sparsely lit with the red glow of halcyon lights, I prayed once more for guidance; for some word of hope to hold on to. What came to me at that moment was totally unexpected, yet completely appropriate. The words of an African American spiritual I had always loved came singing into my thoughts.

"Oh, you got Jesus, hold him fast
One more river to cross
Oh better love has never told
One more river to cross
‘Tis stronger than an iron hand
One more river to cross
‘Tis sweeter than honey comb
One more river to cross
Oh, wasn’t that a wide river
River of Jordan, Lord, wide river
There’s one more river to cross
(from Spirituals by William Stickles)    

     "Yes, Lord," I prayed. "This is going to be a wide, treacherous river to cross. But, it is just one more river in my life and you have always waded along beside me, guiding me through all of the deep waters. You have held me up and set me, standing, on the shores of recovery and health. I know you will be with me throughout this journey as well. Thanks be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. Amen."
     I gathered my dear mother and drove home trusting God; confident of the miracle which was to come, my complete healing from cancer. I have heard from other persons who have endured similar successions of illnesses and troubles in the years since my personal serial experience. Perhaps for me and for all who have faced the challenges and triumphed, the true story has been learning that "we are weak, but He is strong." Moreover, that perfect strength never fails; it is always available, no matter how many times we need it.

 

Rev. Barbara Ward is a retired United Methodist minister and a Chaplain in the OSL. She is an active member of the Richmond/Rufus Womble Chapter. If you would like more information about her book enttitled, "One More River," please contact her at revsbandg@comcast.net.