The Fifth Floor Revelation

While lying on my cancer bed in Arcadia Methodist, I often found myself staring out the window, watching cars pass by five floors below me. I wondered where they were going, where they were coming from and if any of it made them happy. I wondered about all the problems in their lives and how they felt they were dealing with them; dying parents, cheating spouses, bad children. Jerk boss, car problems, financial crisis. I wondered if they turned to friends or family or God. I wondered what they were doing with their lives. And it was during one of these moments that I wondered what I was doing with MY life.

I decided that when I got better. When I could walk - really WALK again - I'd never take another step for granted. When I drove, I'd roll down the window instead of turning on the AC and I'd stick my hand into the wind and feel the freedom of speed. And when I eat and drink, I take big bites, chew vigorously, taste finely, and swallow deeply. I read more now than ever because it doesn't make me sick and I listen to music as loud as I can because I can feel it inside of me.

But what was I DOING with myself?

I needed to GIVE something. I needed to DONATE something. My time. My abilities. My skill set. I decided to volunteer on the creative arts / editing team at the church we attend. Last week I had my orientation. We meet every Wednesday for two hours. The first hour is a praise and worship situation, which, while the worship on Sundays is titillating, the worship on Wednesdays is strangely intimate. It's a small group of people standing in a very tight space, all singing very loudly, hands outstretched. It's quite an experience and I feel there is a unique freedom in it.

Leaving the meeting today, I was walking down the sidewalk and this guy walks past me and then shouts back, "Hey! hey, hey, hey! I KNOW YOU!" I turn around and head back over to him. He says, "Yeah - I KNOW you. I saw you here - a couple months ago - you looked real sick and I puh-RAYED for you!" And then I remembered. Most things I don't remember. He says, "Yeah - I prayed for you! You look so much better! I'm so happy!" And he gave me a big hug and prayed for me again, right there, on the spot.

It is a wonderful and serene, overpowering, abundant feeling to be surrounded by people, really nothing more than strangers, who donate THEIR time to YOU by praying for you. They stop whatever it is they're doing, they set aside time in their day, to say a prayer for a person they've never met, but who they understand needs it.

I asked this guy his name. He said, "Evan". I thanked him and apologized for not being able to remember. I told him the chemo made me gummy. He laughed and was just truly, TRULY genuinely happy to know I had made it through. I told him I'd see him next week and we went our separate ways. I began walking down the sidewalk, past the Burger King, into the street. Halfway across the street I began to smile and jog, merely because I could. Because my legs would carry me and I wanted to feel it. Fifteen feet up I burst into a full sprint, the wind pressing against my face, my arms and legs pumping. My breathing accelerated and it felt good to be alive.