Dear Friends,
I hate hospitals. I’m writing this letter from the Radiation/Oncology department of the University of Pennsylvania hospital. Human frailty is on display here everyday, but I hate it here because when I see these people and consider my illness, I know I am but an exhaled breath on this planet (Psalm 39:5), and God has placed eternity in my heart (Ecclesiastes 3:11). I don’t want to die in this place.
Crouched over my journal and Bible in a crowded waiting room, God leads me away from my familiar Scripture passages into the prophecies of Isaiah. I discover Isaiah 26, a song of praise. In the first verse, God reminds me of the walls of my salvation surrounding me. I remember now; the Lord is my light and my salvation. Why am I afraid? He protects me from danger. (Psalm 27:1) Cancer cannot destroy me. It’s amazing how difficult it is for me to remember these truths.
A nurse hands me a consent form. It contains a very long list of veryBad things that this radiation will or could do to me. I keep reading Isaiah. God will keep me in perfect peace if I trust Him, if I fix my thoughts upon him. (Isaiah 26:3). Be anxious about nothing, my Father tells me. So I empty my concerns and fears into his cupped hands. (Philippians 4:7). I sign the consent form, and it dawns on me, yet again, like it was some great mystery that I’m not afraid to die. I’m afraid to live with the suffering, with the uncertainty, with the hospital as my vacation home. I move on to Isaiah 26, verse 4. I will trust in God because He is the eternal rock. Because He will not be moved throughout my ordeal, neither will I be moved. I trust in God so I will also trust in Christ. And I will not be troubled. (John 14:1) Just as He has done these past three years, God will smooth out the road before me. (Isaiah 26:7) I know I will see His goodness while I am here in the land of the living. Courage is mine in this place of disease and frailty, and I will wait patiently for my God. (Psalm 27:13-14).
OK, Lord. I think I’m centered again. I do love to obey your laws. My true heart’s desire is to glorify your name despite this disease and the doubts and the sweet smiles of my boys who still know nothing of the danger I am in (Isaiah 26: 8). May my every word and action give you glory, Jesus(Colossians 3:17).
The nurses lead me into a CAT scan room and have me lie down. They must mold a mask to use during my treatments. Without warning, they stretch what feels like a wet fish net across my face and clamp it down tight. I can’t open my eyes. I can’t speak. At the moment, I’m just glad I can breathe. I wonder how claustrophics do this, and I try to remember this is medicine and not torture. The nurses tell me not to move before leaving me alone for forty minutes. Darkness, black and without hope, wells up in my spirit, and I forget everything I just read in the waiting room - everything but verse 9. “All night long I search for You; earnestly I seek for God.” I lay still in my forty minute night and pray earnestly. I wait patiently on my God, and He gives me courage. (Psalm 27:14) What am I allowing them to do to me? I search for the Lord in my distress (Isaiah 26:16). I beg the Spirit to seize control of my thoughts and fears. He brings me peace, and I rest (Romans 8:6).
It’s done. Somewhat anticlimactically, a nurse hands me an appointment card. I start my treatments on July 7. Most of our vacation time must be canceled, and I will be sick for the time we will have. For some reason, this discourages me more than anything else.
Then suddenly, God opens up the wound of my greatest sin. It bubbles up out of the mire of my old nature like a rotting carcass. I continue to look to the things of this world (my vacations, my family, my work) for contentment and comfort. I am greedy for the good things of this life, and God condemns my greed as idolatry Colossians 3:6. My sight is not fixed on the last verse of Isaiah 26. I belong to God, but my contentment does not rest squarely on the assurance that one day God will raise my body, and I will sing for joy as His eternal light falls on me like fresh dew (Isaiah 26:19) Paul encourages us to look forward to the day when an archangel shouts, and we will be gathered into the clouds to meet our Lord (1 Thessalonians 4:17) Jesus Himself will clothe us in our resurrected bodies brilliant with beauty and filled to the bursting with power and strength and everlasting life. (2 Corinthians 5: 3-4).
I encourage you, my brothers and sisters, to clothe yourselves with your new nature while we await that day (Colossians 3:10) and dress yourselves each morning with mercy, kindness, gentleness, patience, forgiveness, love and harmonious peace with each other (Colossians 3: 12-15). Our wardrobe for these garments is the words of Christ. Let us wrap our minds and hearts in the Scriptures each day, and Christ's words will dwell in us richly. We will not walk naked and exposed through this life as most do, but we will be dressed in the brilliant, protective robes of peace and hope and wisdom. (Colossians 3:16).
God bless,
Tim
Monday, June 23, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
Tim Eimer: embrace the promises of your heavenly Father this Father's Day
Dear Friends,
I can’t say I’m a big fan of Father’s Day. My dad died of leukemia on December 5, 2004, and six months later, my cancer was discovered. Being without a dad and knowing my sons may soon be fatherless has left me somewhat cold toward the holiday.
This past week, I found my youngest son, Torin, bawling at the bottom of the stairs because, of all reasons, his brother’s train was faster than his. At once my mind sputtered to life like some obsolete computer, and I began crafting the words to yet another lesson about dealing with life’s disappointments or some other parental sentiment. But then my thoughts slogged to a stop. I was just too tired. So I descended the stairs, gathered Torin into my lap and held him without saying a word. Sitting there staring out the window with my son in my lap, a thunderbolt of realization struck me. Call me dense, but I never thought of Father’s Day in the context of my heavenly Father.
Last Thursday, I sat in the office of my radiologist. I was anxious and fearful because, of all reasons, death might be around the corner. Unlike my five year old, I didn’t cry, but I prayed very hard throughout the consultation. My conversation with my Father went something like this.
I can’t say I’m a big fan of Father’s Day. My dad died of leukemia on December 5, 2004, and six months later, my cancer was discovered. Being without a dad and knowing my sons may soon be fatherless has left me somewhat cold toward the holiday.
This past week, I found my youngest son, Torin, bawling at the bottom of the stairs because, of all reasons, his brother’s train was faster than his. At once my mind sputtered to life like some obsolete computer, and I began crafting the words to yet another lesson about dealing with life’s disappointments or some other parental sentiment. But then my thoughts slogged to a stop. I was just too tired. So I descended the stairs, gathered Torin into my lap and held him without saying a word. Sitting there staring out the window with my son in my lap, a thunderbolt of realization struck me. Call me dense, but I never thought of Father’s Day in the context of my heavenly Father.
Last Thursday, I sat in the office of my radiologist. I was anxious and fearful because, of all reasons, death might be around the corner. Unlike my five year old, I didn’t cry, but I prayed very hard throughout the consultation. My conversation with my Father went something like this.
Father, my vision of the future is short sighted. Fear and worry cause me to doubt you.
Child, before I laid the first cornerstone of the earth’s foundation, I loved you. Though you were my enemy, my plan has always been to adopt you and call you my son. (Ephesians 1:4-5).
Father, this radiation treatment is everyday for six weeks. It’s going to be a lot of time, a lot of pain.
Push your roots deeper into the rich soil of my marvelous love, son. You cannot know how wide and long and high and deep my love is for you. (Ephesians 3:17-18)
Father, the treatments could paralyze me; they could give me more cancer later.
Son, my faithful love for you endures forever. I am working out my plan for your life. (Psalm 138:8)
Father, the treatment may not work.
At my Firstborn's request, I will keep you and care for you. (John 17:11)
Father, the cancer is still in my lungs. Experimental drugs, more pain, more uncertainty, more fear.
Son, strangers now love you, people you’ve never met shed tears for you. How much more do I love you? I sacrificed my First Son for you. I sent my Spirit to live in you. My love for you is defined by Me for I am love. (1 John 4:7-10)
Father, will you take this disease from me?
My Firstborn Son was sorrowful unto death when he asked me to remove My cup of suffering from Him. I sent Him an angel, but I still sent him to the cross. (Luke 22:42-44)
Father, I am afraid.
Be strong, son, and don’t be afraid. I am going ahead of you to make certain you don’t fall. I cannot forsake you. (Deuteronomy 31:6)
I am so tired Heavenly Father.
Wait on me, son, and your strength will be renewed. You will fly like the eagles and run without growing weary (Isaiah 40:31)
Father, everyone thinks I’m so strong, but you know my weakness. My faith constantly falters.
I am the eternal God, son. I am your refuge. There is no one like Me. I will ride across the heavens to help you. My everlasting arms are beneath you. I am holding you just as you held Torin. (Deuteronomy 33:26-27)
After a few minutes on the stairs, Torin realized there was nothing to cry about, and he trotted back upstairs to his trains. I wish it were as easy for me to trot back carefree to my daily activities, to remember that death has been swallowed in victory and can no longer sting me. (1 Corinthians 15:55) It’s not easy for me, but I’m getting there.
I encourage all of you, my dear brothers and sisters, to embrace the promises of your heavenly Father this Father’s Day.
God bless,
Tim
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Tim Eimer:Joy and Sorrow
Dear friends,
The topic of joy came up in my class a few weeks ago, and one student commented, "But Christians don't have joy." As many of you know, fourteen year olds are not easily deceived, and good teaching is built upon uncompromising honesty so I replied, "You're right. There is not
much joy among the Christians I know." My student's comment has stuck with me like a fish hook snagged in my thoughts.
Summer definitely arrived this weekend, and while I was thinking back on my lifetime of pleasant summers, I realized they were filled with happiness but not necessarily joy, that deep sense of contentment, desire for celebration regardless of circumstances, and anticipation of future glory.
This summer has started off as a summer of sorrow. I'll be spending much of my time at the hospital. Perhaps this may be my last summer of pools and beaches and swimming holes with my boys? It is so hard to stop thinking about the cancer cells relentlessly divided and growing inside of me. So how can there be joy for me this summer?
Again, I look to words of Christ for my answer. I get endless insights from his teachings at the last supper (John 14-17). I often feel like I am sitting at the back of the room eavesdropping on my Savior's words. I praise God that Jesus did not break the bread, drink the cup, and then
merely throw out the terminator line at his disciples, "I'll be back." Our Savior faced the worst death in history that night. He was about to endure the physical pain and shame of the cross followed by a descent into hell as his Father poured out his wrath on Jesus. Certainly
passages from Isaiah flitted through our Lord's thoughts. Horrible mocking committed by his own creatures approached (Isaiah 50:6). He would be beaten beyond recognition (52:14); pierced and whipped and unjustly condemned (53:5). Worst of all, Jesus knew his own Father would crush him and cause him grief by turning him into an offering for sin (53:10).
Despite the horror of these thoughts, what did he patiently teach his disciples that night? What comfort did he offer them? Jesus painted a picture of lives overflowing with abundant joy despite the sorrows of life. Jesus promised to transform his disciple's sorrow into joy (John
16:20-21), and despite their many earthly trials and sorrows, they will have peace and a joy that no one could steal (John 16: 22, 33). Jesus knew the fates of these men. They would be scorned, hated, tortured, and killed, but their joy would remain forever their's. The paradoxical
result of Christ's matchless gift of salvation is an earthly life of sorrow and joy.
So where does this leave me? My prayer and my choice is to experience a summer of sorrow filled with abundant joy. To do this, I must remain firmly attached to the Vine. God is pruning and purifying me for fruitfulness (John 13:3-4), and if I remain in Jesus, I will produce much
fruit (15:5), and as I produce the fruits of the Spirit, Jesus will fill me with a joy that overflows my soul (15:11). Even as I pen these words, tears of joy fill my eyes, and the sorrow I felt at the start of this letter has been transformed into deep joy. As you pray for me and I for you, let us pray for a summer of joy despite our sorrows.
God bless,
Tim
____________________________________________________________
The topic of joy came up in my class a few weeks ago, and one student commented, "But Christians don't have joy." As many of you know, fourteen year olds are not easily deceived, and good teaching is built upon uncompromising honesty so I replied, "You're right. There is not
much joy among the Christians I know." My student's comment has stuck with me like a fish hook snagged in my thoughts.
Summer definitely arrived this weekend, and while I was thinking back on my lifetime of pleasant summers, I realized they were filled with happiness but not necessarily joy, that deep sense of contentment, desire for celebration regardless of circumstances, and anticipation of future glory.
This summer has started off as a summer of sorrow. I'll be spending much of my time at the hospital. Perhaps this may be my last summer of pools and beaches and swimming holes with my boys? It is so hard to stop thinking about the cancer cells relentlessly divided and growing inside of me. So how can there be joy for me this summer?
Again, I look to words of Christ for my answer. I get endless insights from his teachings at the last supper (John 14-17). I often feel like I am sitting at the back of the room eavesdropping on my Savior's words. I praise God that Jesus did not break the bread, drink the cup, and then
merely throw out the terminator line at his disciples, "I'll be back." Our Savior faced the worst death in history that night. He was about to endure the physical pain and shame of the cross followed by a descent into hell as his Father poured out his wrath on Jesus. Certainly
passages from Isaiah flitted through our Lord's thoughts. Horrible mocking committed by his own creatures approached (Isaiah 50:6). He would be beaten beyond recognition (52:14); pierced and whipped and unjustly condemned (53:5). Worst of all, Jesus knew his own Father would crush him and cause him grief by turning him into an offering for sin (53:10).
Despite the horror of these thoughts, what did he patiently teach his disciples that night? What comfort did he offer them? Jesus painted a picture of lives overflowing with abundant joy despite the sorrows of life. Jesus promised to transform his disciple's sorrow into joy (John
16:20-21), and despite their many earthly trials and sorrows, they will have peace and a joy that no one could steal (John 16: 22, 33). Jesus knew the fates of these men. They would be scorned, hated, tortured, and killed, but their joy would remain forever their's. The paradoxical
result of Christ's matchless gift of salvation is an earthly life of sorrow and joy.
So where does this leave me? My prayer and my choice is to experience a summer of sorrow filled with abundant joy. To do this, I must remain firmly attached to the Vine. God is pruning and purifying me for fruitfulness (John 13:3-4), and if I remain in Jesus, I will produce much
fruit (15:5), and as I produce the fruits of the Spirit, Jesus will fill me with a joy that overflows my soul (15:11). Even as I pen these words, tears of joy fill my eyes, and the sorrow I felt at the start of this letter has been transformed into deep joy. As you pray for me and I for you, let us pray for a summer of joy despite our sorrows.
God bless,
Tim
____________________________________________________________
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Tim Eimer: "Let it go, son..."
Good morning friends,
My friend (Bill DeHeer) and I took our sons camping last weekend. At the campground, six, feral wolf boys descended upon hapless weekend nature lovers so we spent Sunday afternoon at a lake watching the boys hunt for salamanders and water snakes. My oldest son became very attached to his Salamander and spent much of the day building a home for it and warning his little brother not to accidentally step on it. The creature became quite a burden for him. At the end of the day he tearfully begged me to take it home. Knowing full well the fate awaiting the poor creature at our house, I finally said, "Let it go, son. It belongs here in the lake."
Next Thursday, I meet with a radiologist to start radiation treatments on my neck, and soon I meet with yet another doctor about the experimental drug to treat the tumors in my lungs. My burdens are heavy. What will these treatments do to me? Do they have a prayer of working? Will we get any rest this summer after such a hard school year? Will I be able to take my family on our August vacations? Will this be my final summer of vacations?
Amid these doubts shouting from the corners of my mind, I heard my own Father's voice quite clearly this morning while reading in the gospels. "Let these burdens go, Son. They belong with me."
At times, I feel guilty about the attention I am getting because of my illness and the outpouring of prayers on my behalf. Many of you have shared your own burdens with me, and some are suffering far worse than I.
2 Corinthians 1:4 reminds me than God is comforting me in my trouble so that I can comfort others in their troubles so let me share with you the comfort God has given to me.
In Mathew 11, Jesus encourages us to lay down our heavy burdens, burdens we were never meant to carry, the burden of anxiety about tomorrow, the burden of worry about our loved ones, the burden of fear of disease and death, the fear that God does not care for us. "Let them all go," our Savior says. "They belong with my Father." Jesus asks us to take up his light burden, and he will give us rest. He will give us his gift of peace of mind and heart (John 14:27). And what is this light burden? I have found it is waking up each morning with a prayer of thanks on my lips. It is caring only for the troubles of today and not tomorrow. It is looking for opportunities to further God's Kingdom in the lives of those around me by speaking a word of encouragement or exhortation, committing to do a small act of gentleness, praying for God's patience because mine is gone, and loving those people that I really don't like right at the moment. I have found Jesus' light burden to be a daily prayer for joy in this day he has given me and for peace as I trust in his love for me and my family. His light burden is a daily prayer for strength and courage in the face of this black disease. Daily, it is a prayer for a deeper faith that I am a child of God and a confidence that when I fall, his everlasting arms are there to catch me (Deuteronomy 33:27). Finally, taking up the light burden of Jesus requires me to give up my illusion of control in my life and peacefully submit to the transforming power of God's Spirit as He conforms me to the very likeness of Christ.
I prayed for many of you this morning. I prayed that we all take up the light burden of Jesus, though it seems far more difficult to do than we could ever imagine. I prayed we let go of those heavy burdens we are nurturing and stumbling beneath. I prayed that we would all lay down our heavy burdens placing them where they belong, in the hands of our Father.
God bless,
Tim
My friend (Bill DeHeer) and I took our sons camping last weekend. At the campground, six, feral wolf boys descended upon hapless weekend nature lovers so we spent Sunday afternoon at a lake watching the boys hunt for salamanders and water snakes. My oldest son became very attached to his Salamander and spent much of the day building a home for it and warning his little brother not to accidentally step on it. The creature became quite a burden for him. At the end of the day he tearfully begged me to take it home. Knowing full well the fate awaiting the poor creature at our house, I finally said, "Let it go, son. It belongs here in the lake."
Next Thursday, I meet with a radiologist to start radiation treatments on my neck, and soon I meet with yet another doctor about the experimental drug to treat the tumors in my lungs. My burdens are heavy. What will these treatments do to me? Do they have a prayer of working? Will we get any rest this summer after such a hard school year? Will I be able to take my family on our August vacations? Will this be my final summer of vacations?
Amid these doubts shouting from the corners of my mind, I heard my own Father's voice quite clearly this morning while reading in the gospels. "Let these burdens go, Son. They belong with me."
At times, I feel guilty about the attention I am getting because of my illness and the outpouring of prayers on my behalf. Many of you have shared your own burdens with me, and some are suffering far worse than I.
2 Corinthians 1:4 reminds me than God is comforting me in my trouble so that I can comfort others in their troubles so let me share with you the comfort God has given to me.
In Mathew 11, Jesus encourages us to lay down our heavy burdens, burdens we were never meant to carry, the burden of anxiety about tomorrow, the burden of worry about our loved ones, the burden of fear of disease and death, the fear that God does not care for us. "Let them all go," our Savior says. "They belong with my Father." Jesus asks us to take up his light burden, and he will give us rest. He will give us his gift of peace of mind and heart (John 14:27). And what is this light burden? I have found it is waking up each morning with a prayer of thanks on my lips. It is caring only for the troubles of today and not tomorrow. It is looking for opportunities to further God's Kingdom in the lives of those around me by speaking a word of encouragement or exhortation, committing to do a small act of gentleness, praying for God's patience because mine is gone, and loving those people that I really don't like right at the moment. I have found Jesus' light burden to be a daily prayer for joy in this day he has given me and for peace as I trust in his love for me and my family. His light burden is a daily prayer for strength and courage in the face of this black disease. Daily, it is a prayer for a deeper faith that I am a child of God and a confidence that when I fall, his everlasting arms are there to catch me (Deuteronomy 33:27). Finally, taking up the light burden of Jesus requires me to give up my illusion of control in my life and peacefully submit to the transforming power of God's Spirit as He conforms me to the very likeness of Christ.
I prayed for many of you this morning. I prayed that we all take up the light burden of Jesus, though it seems far more difficult to do than we could ever imagine. I prayed we let go of those heavy burdens we are nurturing and stumbling beneath. I prayed that we would all lay down our heavy burdens placing them where they belong, in the hands of our Father.
God bless,
Tim
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