Hosing Strays...

photo courtesy of roflcat.com

Confronting Fear with Faith...

"Halt! I have a hose, & I know how to use it," she cried.

Author’s Note: As the Thanksgiving holiday passes, and Christmas approaches, many of us turn our thoughts toward faith. Such was the case for me when, in preparation for annual Christmas cards, I reviewed my 2009 journey. The following post is the result of my week's reflections. I do, however, recognize that some of my readers are not of faith. Thus, I trust to their gracious forbearance as I publish this week’s Sniffle.

copyright © 2009
He literally leaped from the sofa and dashed out the front door…mid-sentence. My brother looked at me quizzically. He’d been away from home for some time. But I was used to my father's seemingly, inexplicable interruptions.

I knew what Dad had to do. I gave my brother a wink and grinned. I, then, casually approached the window, and peered through the Plantation shutters to confirm my theory.

And sure enough, there in the front courtyard stood Dad, hissing... and aiming a garden hose at an unsuspecting, stray cat. It’s not that he harbored any ill will toward the feline species--or any animal, for that matter. In fact, his actions were not prompted by any hidden malice.

After all, Dad loved animals. He intended the cat no real harm. He simply wished to persuade the hapless creature of the inadvisability of staking any claim on our courtyard’s wall. And while the force of the water's spray was considerable, it would not hurt the cat. Dad only appeared armed and dangerous.

I understood it all perfectly, you see, because my bedroom window faced the courtyard’s fortification. More than once, I had been privy to the midnight, cat squalls that regularly took place there-- uninvited brutal battles for territory that disturbed the peaceful slumber of our household’s members.

A courtyard was meant to provide a buffer, safety and protection. But the hissing and screeching that nightly visited our place of refuge had interrupted my dreams repeatedly.

Dad only appeared armed and dangerous.

On such occasions, after I’d been abruptly awakened, my heart raced until I regained my bearings, a happy state prompted by the familiar creak of the front door. Indeed, the porch light would suddenly signal, and illuminate the outside-- brilliant comfort filtering into my room through cracks between the thermal, roller blind and my window frame. Dad took his position behind the hose, and peace would reign the night once more.

Forget things that go bump in the night…greater terrors existed in the scream, wail, hiss and howl of felines locked in territorial conflict. And so as I peeped through the shutters that day, vaguely aware of my brother’s incredulity, my mind wandered back to those earlier times.

I remembered the howls that drove me to distraction; I recalled huddling under my bedding. My childish imagination had proven itself fertile ground for all things that screeched in the night. And over the years, there had been a great many.

My big brother, at times, added to my anxieties. We shared a bedroom wall, and therefore, the unmistakable sounds of his latest Acid Rock album frequently sent me scrambling as deep under my blankets as I could get.

Under the best of circumstances, the muffled shrieks served as spectacular sound effects for the ghost stories that my cousin and I spun after Mom turned out the lights.

But alone with the unfamiliar and dissonant cadences? My uneasiness grew to gargantuan proportions. And for me, the darkness only magnified the sense of danger…

Dad took his position behind the hose, and peace would reign the night once more.

Darkness alone is enough to stop any child’s heart. And I was no exception to the rule. If Mom were finishing up the dishes or some other household project, she might ask me to get myself ready for bed.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes to tuck you in, “she’d say in a matter-of-fact tone which demonstrated her complete and total ignorance of the war raging in my soul.

Her casual approach left me vulnerable to indescribable horror…I looked down the hallway which seemed to grow ever longer with the increasing nighttime shadows.

Another night…and I must yet again run my own personal gauntlet. I took a deep breath, dropped my head down, and charged. My stocking feet slid, skid, and treacherously slipped on the marine-varnished, wood floors as I scrambled past two modern art pieces, portraits with distorted facial features, hanging upon the hall wall. I held my breath as I scurried past gaping, ravenous doorways.

But my ordeal had only just begun. Stepping into my room, I was greeted by a large, dark , picture window. The blinds had not yet been drawn, and the darkness pressed against the panes…ominously threatening to burst into my room. With my back against the wall lest any creature approach me from behind, I inched my way toward the window, grabbed the blind cord, and yanked. It was done.

Darkness alone is enough to stop any child’s heart.

I breathed, and turned on the lamp which occupied the bedside table. But not before the wild wails began. I leaped onto my bed, and leaned over the edge. Peering under the bed skirt, I ascertained no monsters. With such terrors ruled out, there remained only one plausible explanation: my brother had once again turned up the Acid volume. It was Fear—raw and unedited.

As the years passed, my fears became more generic. I said I was too big for night frights and other such absurdities. All-American panic over public speaking, dread of social events, or fear of cold calls replaced my earlier concerns.

Yet, the approach remained the same. I ran the gauntlet. In fact, both my parents insisted upon it. When I stood before my private school classmates in the 5th grade, I was barely able to whisper the words of poetry I had memorized for the assignment.

“Under a toadstool, crept a wee Elf,/Out of the rain to shelter himself,” I choked, mustering my faint reserves of courage for the first, few lines of Oliver Hereford’s poem.

“Speak up, “ barked my fifth grade teacher, a former Marine and Drill Sergeant.

There was only one way to deal with such terror. My parents’ prescription was predictable: I must enter every public speaking competition available for my age group.

When I entered secondary or high school, my mother pushed me out the door every time a social event for teens came to her attention. Saying “No” was a not a luxury afforded me. Thus, I gulped and ran through the paces.

It was Fear—raw and unedited.

In addition, if information about events were required or if any arrangements were to be made, I must conquer my timidity and move beyond the inevitable cold sweat. Eventually, I dialed telephone numbers in spite of myself.

Perhaps, you can relate. But perhaps, not. You may be one of the fearless. You may even sport a “No Fear” sticker on your SUV. Not me.

Of course, as a young adult, I believed I’d completely conquered all my misgivings. I readily volunteered for sky-diving expeditions, approached celebrities for journalistic interviews, moved to Great Britain on a whim, and spoke before enormous crowds.

Later in my life, I even joked with family, friends, and medical professionals as I made my way through the maze of treatments prescribed to eradicate cancer’s foothold in my body. Yes, beyond doubt, there was a time when Fear had been hosed.

The battle had been fought...and won. Or so I thought--until not so long ago. It was time for my regular check-up with my oncologist. Every so many months, blood samples and tests are run. I make the transformation from woman to laboratory rat in a matter of minutes.

The medical community watches me like a hawk. And despite the fact that like Pavlov’s dog I find myself heaving at the mere site of my physician’s clinic, I am grateful; I truly am. However, a few weeks prior to my appointment the shrieks, the squalls and the hissing began…

The first assault came when one of my close friends who has been battling ovarian cancer for 2 ½ years wrote me an alarming email. Her most recent CAT scan had come back showing increased malignant activity despite conflicting and encouraging blood work reports of low cancer markers.

Yes, beyond doubt, Fear had been hosed.

Another email from my aunt who lives thousands of miles away revealed that she too had possible cancer concerns, and would be going in for further tests. I felt helpless at so great a distance. And the shrieks only escalated when one of my very, dearest friends reported breast pain. In fact, my list of friends facing cancer began to grow exponentially.

In addition, there were the health anomalies and physical pain I was experiencing. My instinct was to ignore these, but experience reminded me of the old proverb, “Better safe than sorry.”
Any one of these circumstances would have been cause for concern. But taken together, and magnified by the one year anniversary of my mother’s death, I felt darkness closing in.

But when my physician's nurse called after my scheduled, total body, bone scan and told me that a "hot spot" had been identified on one of my right ribs, I heard Fear’s wail loud and clear. I was to report to the Radiology Department for X-rays the following day.

Thus began a long night that would stretch into days, weeks and months...for, while the x-rays were clear, my Friday CT-scan revealed a bone lesion that aligned with the "hot spot." Radiology recommended a biopsy, and when the biopsy proved inconclusive, surgery followed.

Like Joseph Conrad’s protagonist in his famed Heart of Darkness, I found myself calling out in the midnight watches, “Oh, the horror; the horror!” Images of my cancer treatments, my mother’s excruciating death, and the death of numerous friends crashed in upon me. Doubts, grotesque and sickening memories, raw fears screeched upon the wall; the cacophony pursued me in the stillness of the night. And I trembled.

I felt darkness closing in.

This time, however, I would not hear the familiar sound of the creaking front door, and rest confidently knowing that my Dad was on his way. No, Dad and Mom were both gone. I would not see them again on this side of eternity. The battle now belonged to me. And my thoughts wandered to garden hoses and stray cats.

Some of the noise in my life was necessary; it served to warn me just as all pain alerts us to potential physical or emotional danger. As I reviewed my concerns, I considered that these were all circumstances that I could and should address.

And so I did. I arrived on time for my scheduled tests, emailed my friends and family, and telephoned whenever possible. I encouraged one, dear friend to request an MRI. I sent care packages to another. I encouraged and prayed for friends and family. Quite simply, I helped in whatever practical ways I could--by whatever means were available to me.

I also talked with close friends about my own fears; in addition, I recalled wise words from the New Testament, and followed the prescription: “Be anxious for nothing, but by prayer and supplication, let your requests be made known to God.” I watched, waited and prayed some more.

My thoughts wandered to garden hoses and stray cats.

But what of those night-watches and the noisy vagaries? What about the hissing and caterwauling that disturbed me? The strays still threatened to take up permanent residence, and to rule the boundaries of my life. Well, I readily acknowledged this to myself: hiding would not silence them.

No, these anxieties must be confronted and informed by facts, by truth. As long as those phantasmal terrors tyrannized the night, there would be no peace. Stray and random fear --the kind fueled by "what ifs"--must be encouraged to find other hunting grounds.

I was reminded of C.S. Lewis' Narnia story, The Silver Chair; I recalled reading it to my son many years prior. In Lewis’ novel, Jill, Eustace and a Narnian named Puddleglum are captured by the Queen of the Underworld. While there, they discover a "knight" named Rillian who has been named as the Queen’s heir.

However, Rillian has been told that he is under an enchantment which comes upon him in a fit each evening. For his own protection, the Queen commands that Rillian be bound to a Silver Chair until the fit passes.

But of course, the supposed madness reveals itself to be exactly the reverse. During the time frame which has been identified as "enchantment," Rillian actually recalls the world as it is in fact. The illusion of the underworld fades, and in those moments, he recognizes that the Queen herself has used magic to deceive him--to persuade him that his previous life was simply a figment of imagination.

The Queen asserts that the underworld represents reality; during the hours of his genuine enchantment, Rillian accepts her explanation. He is captive. As I reflected on Rillian’s plight, I recognized that my own unbridled fears were much like the Queen’s enchantments; they represented my Silver Chair.

To be sure, these noisy chimeras at times bind me. And when fear swallows faith, my perception of reality clouds. Yet, when confronted with fact and truth, the power of the howling, deceitful illusions crumble.

Stray and random fear --the kind fueled by "what ifs"--must be encouraged to find other hunting grounds.

The "what-ifs," the "perhaps," the "maybes"--these were certainly out of my control. And for the time being, I therefore should not mistakenly recognize them as established fact. I must trust what I knew to be fact, and suspend judgment until the unknown could be discerned. And while I waited for answers from the medical community, I continued to pray...

Of course, there was no immediate rescue, no instantaneous solution to life's challenges. Indeed, fears continued to prowl the midnight hours. Yet, I recalled my Dad's daily dash out the door, and instead of diving for cover, I began to meet my anxieties head on.

And when I switched on my limited light, and the truth showered upon them, the tyrants of the night frequently proved to be hapless and bedraggled creatures. Most of the time, I noted, they were scrappy, little vagrants who had minimal power; they could introduce no actual harm. They simply pedaled fear, and disturbed my peace if I allowed them to stake a claim.

Thus, over and over again when the noisy terrors returned, I reminded myself that I could rely on several very critical truths: my friends, my aunt and I would be there for one another, supporting each other no matter what lay ahead.

We also were all in the care of excellent physicians as well as in the hands of a loving God. Whatever was ahead, we would not face it alone. We would walk together and remind one another of the promise, "And lo, I am with you always…"

And it appeared that in the past, God had made good on that promise. I remembered the big scary, if not hairy, walls that illustrated the Bible storybooks I encountered as a child in physicians' waiting rooms.

At the time, I had particularly reveled in the Old Testament story of Joshua and the walls of Jericho. Pouring over the waiting room books and their illustrations, I identified with Joshua to some extent. I was sure that while facing such enormous obstacles, Joshua was fearful despite the allure of adventure.

They were scrappy, little vagrants who had minimal power.

In an effort to entertain me as we waited to see my pediatrician, my mother read the books' words to me. Enthralled, I listened to descriptions of Joshua’s adventurous exploits.

And I discovered that prior to leading the Israelis into Palestine to face "giants," the fortifications of Jericho, and other insurmountable walls, he was told, "Be strong and courageous. Be not dismayed. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go,"(Joshua 1:9).

After this "halftime rally," Joshua marched in, and faced those fears. And, of course, Jericho's walls became Biblical history.

With this memory in mind, then, I recently adopted the same comeback given to my childhood hero. "Be strong and courageous," I told myself. No, I would not allow the shrieks and screams to circumscribe my life.

Indeed, I knew what I had to do. I must face and replace those uninvited thoughts and amorphous fears that vied for territorial rights. Like my father, I could effectively establish the boundaries. "This far, and no further," I would cry.

I would not allow the shrieks and screams to circumscribe my life.

In fact, although my most recent surgery dispelled this particular cancer threat, when those dark terrors inevitably menace once more, I intend to embrace the practical advice of the New Testament’s most prolific writer, Paul.

He exhorts his readers, “…whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things,” (Philippians 4:8, italics mine).

And so it is... I plan to ward off those night-time strays whenever they dare return to unsettle me. Unfortunately, they are rather persistent. To be frank, my oncologist has warned me that uncertainty may well characterize my ongoing medical saga.

There will undoubtedly be more ups and downs on the road ahead of me. And some of my friends and family members will more than likely face future hurdles as well.

Yet, while cancer might someday once again cast shadows on the courtyard walls, with my eyes on "what is good, and true," I will no longer run my life’s race with head down.

Instead, I am determined that I will charge into the fray with confidence, knowing that I possess something by far more effective than a garden hose. And I am armed and dangerous.