Saturday, October 22, 2011
Vanity
You’re born – you live – you die. Sounds cold, doesn’t it. We’ve been studying the book of Ecclesiastes in Sunday school.
“Vanity. All is vanity,” Solomon said, looking back as an old man. After all, he was the wisest man on earth.
But that rubs against our grain. We cherish life: our family, our health, our possessions, out trophies, our faith.
“No, these are not vanity,” you say.
I’m not talking about precious moments that will live forever in our heart.
Five hundred years from now, will anyone know about you and your stuff? Only if you are listed in a genealogy or a book that somebody reads. Statues are rare
One thing in life is not vanity – only one, and we cling to it with reverence. Thanks to Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, our salvation will get us to heaven. That’s forever.
Without it, all is vanity – all is vanity.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Breast Cancer
The surgeon said he was sorry as he handed me the pathology report. Two words concerned me: metastasis and aggressive.
I’m an optimist. “God will get us through this,” I boldly told my husband, who looked frightened.
A month and a half later, awaking from a mastectomy in the middle of the night, I crashed. I was scared. I wasn’t afraid to die; I feared chemo and radiation. At my lowest point, God wrapped his arms around me with assurance that He would be with me all the way. Then He comforted me with a Dottie Rambo song, Sheltered in the Arms of God. After this experience, I didn't need to attend support meetings as suggested by the Cancer Society.
During the year-long treatment, I was admitted to the hospital twice for “high-dose” chemo – four weeks the first time and five weeks the second. Instead of one treatment every three weeks, I received chemo each of the first five days.
I understand that chemotherapy affects people differently. The nausea medicine worked for me and I didn’t get nauseous – just weak. Seven years into remission my oncologist told me I was in a fifteen percent survival rate for my type of cancer. Today I'm fourteen years in remission. Thank
I’m an optimist. “God will get us through this,” I boldly told my husband, who looked frightened.
A month and a half later, awaking from a mastectomy in the middle of the night, I crashed. I was scared. I wasn’t afraid to die; I feared chemo and radiation. At my lowest point, God wrapped his arms around me with assurance that He would be with me all the way. Then He comforted me with a Dottie Rambo song, Sheltered in the Arms of God. After this experience, I didn't need to attend support meetings as suggested by the Cancer Society.
During the year-long treatment, I was admitted to the hospital twice for “high-dose” chemo – four weeks the first time and five weeks the second. Instead of one treatment every three weeks, I received chemo each of the first five days.
I understand that chemotherapy affects people differently. The nausea medicine worked for me and I didn’t get nauseous – just weak. Seven years into remission my oncologist told me I was in a fifteen percent survival rate for my type of cancer. Today I'm fourteen years in remission. Thank
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