The Night of a Thousand Storms

On the night of June 21, 2006 my wife Kristin and I were putting our three boys, Isaiah age three, Judah almost two, and Titus three months, to bed. The morrow was going to be a long day for the family, so we wanted to get the kids to bed early for a good rest. The next day would be the celebration of Kristin and my four-year anniversary, Judah's second birthday, and Isaiah biopsy. Our son's chest was dramatically distended by a tumor the size of a softball.

A week prior to the biopsy we were at our local hospital for an ultrasound scan of Isaiah's liver, which appeared to be enlarged. A blood test weeks earlier gave no cause for alarm, so my wife and I were sure that the tests would go quickly with no negative results. I can still remember the nervous sensation I felt when the ultrasound technician typed in the words "renal mass". We were then escorted into a private conference room where the supervising doctor told us Isaiah's liver was being pushed forward by a large tumor. Most likely, she said, the mass was either a Wilm's tumor or Neuroblastoma. We were sent home and told to wait for an opening at the Cleveland Clinic, a nationally ranked hospital nearby, which could better treat our son. As soon as I got home I rushed to the computer to look up the two tumors on the Internet. My heart sank even further when the first sight to pop up was that of the National Children's Cancer Institute. Our son, Isaiah, had cancer!?

As the tests proceeded at the Clinic, the doctors could not distinguish the type of tumor Isaiah had. The differences between Wilm's tumor and Neuroblastoma are great, but not always evident without a biopsy. Wilm's tumor, we were told, had a cure rate of near ninety percent where as a Neuroblastoma tumor the size of Isaiah's would more than likely have a cure rate somewhere between twenty five to thirty five percent.

I am quite sure I have never truly felt fear before this point in my life. The love between a parent and child is not an emotion that be generated by man's will. The instant Isaiah was born, a wave of love filled my body, enveloped my soul. Now this great indescribable love was proportionally turned into gripping fear. I felt as if I would perish under the weight of this burden. The hardest part of all was not knowing which type of cancer Isaiah had.

Surely God could deliver my son from a Wilm's tumor. I begged God for a Wilm's tumor. Please God, don't let it be Neuroblastoma. My bedroom floor became the Garden of Gethsemane. Like Jesus, I realized that this cup was not going to pass from me. Kristin and I were informed that the pre-biopsy tests were leaning toward Neuroblastoma. Was God's hand too short to save? Can God only deliver us from easily cured diseases?

We threw a small party for Judah's birthday the night before the biopsy. Everyone, including myself, was smiling, trying to let Judah enjoy his day. We were all smiling on the outside, but inwardly we were full of sorrow. It was such a fragile dam that held back our tears.

Like most birthday parties, pictures were constantly being taken. But unlike a normal birthday, the cameras found their way from the birthday boy to his brother. I knew why they were taking his picture, for I also found myself focusing in on Isaiah. They wanted pictures of him before he lost his hair. They wanted pictures of him before this awful disease ravaged his body, before he was too sickly to smile and run around carefree and full of joy like he was this night. They wanted pictures to remember him by. I quit being able to take pictures. Every shot they posed reminded me of a bleak future. Every click of the shutter and pop of the flash tore at my heart. I had to get away. I found a reason to go upstairs to my room. My wife checked on me and I cried in her arms.

When everyone left, the night was no easier to handle. This was the part in the evening where we had to tell our son that he had a tumor in his belly. It was time to tell our three year old what tumors can do. We had to attempt to prepare him for tomorrow's surgery. I sat Isaiah down and told him we must try to fix his tumor, that if this tumor kept growing, it would grow so large that he could die. I am not sure I even said it out loud before this point. It would hurt to say it in general, but had an excruciating sting to say it to him. It seems impossible that I would ever forget his response. "But I want to die and go to Heaven and be with Jesus," he said.

These words of my son still convict me.Had my life grown so pleasant that I would rather be here on earth than in Heaven? Isaiah believed that he would be with Jesus.He believed that to die was a gain. How could we think of changing his mind? We explained that we agreed, but that God wants us to be together now on earth. Kristin and I prayed over Isaiah and put our sons to bed.

While putting them to bed close to nine that night, a storm front began to approach our home. The dim bedroom was lit up brighter than day, followed by a crack of thunder that shook our house. My wife and I were a little set back but thought it not too far from a common storm approaching.

Judah got our attention. He pulled his pacifier out of his mouth and muttered these words, "It's a sign." My wife was puzzled and asked him what he said. He replied,"It's a sign. A sign from God." Then he placed his pacifier back in his mouth and put his head back down in his crib. Kristin looked at me and I at her. We smiled, but it was a smile of astonishment. Judah was advanced for a two year old, but certainly did not know what a "sign from God" meant. My heart was so heavy. I felt the need to pray so I knelt on the floor while Kristin finished putting the boys to bed. God spoke to me in my prayer. In my prayer I was told the sign was a reference to a story in Scripture where Jesus was in the boat during a storm. I told my wife what God had shown me but I did not know what the sign meant.

My wife went to bed. I wanted to spend time with God alone this night. Outside of our home the storm began to strengthen. The rain was pouring down. The bright lightning and booming thunder we previously experienced seemed to continue one after another without end. The lightning and thunder was almost simultaneous and shook me every time.

We recently built our new home and moved in before it was completely finished. The system that removes water from our house was one thing that still needed to be completed. If the power went out, the sump pump would quit removing the water from around the house and our basement would quickly begin to fill up. A storm of this magnitude would cause me great concern at any time, but this night it compounded my agony.

The next morning people I didn't know were going to cart my son into a room I was not allowed to enter and cut into him. My son, whom I love so deeply, was sleeping upstairs soundly in this storm of storms. The world was crashing in and he was sound asleep. I found myself several hours later trying to sleep. The sign that God gave was still lighting up our house and shaking the walls. I could not find peace. What is this sign? What was God trying to tell me with the story of Jesus and the boat? As I found myself not able to sleep I remembered that Jesus was sleeping on that boat during a storm. The disciples were sure they were going to die. The men who grew up fishing on this sea since their youth were sure they were going to lose their life. This storm must have been the greatest storm on the Sea of Galilee during their lifetime, however, in the midst of all this, Jesus was sleeping.

I called out to Jesus, "How could you sleep...How could you sleep?" When Jesus was aroused from his slumber by the disciples He rebuked them, "Why are ye so fearful, O ye of little faith?" He turned to the storm and rebuked it. The storm was stilled. Why could I not sleep? Where was my faith?

I spent a while mulling over all the problems set before me. I tossed in my bed not able to sleep, wondering where my faith was. How could He sleep? In my confusion I felt God wanted me to rebuke the storm - to do what Jesus did, to stop the storm. The weather was still fierce. This night was truly the worst storm I had experienced in my life; I would discover later that towns nearby were flooded, and a fireman just minutes away lost his life rescuing teens from an overflowing river. How could God, then, want me to rebuke the actual storm? I felt like a fool to think it. A person can't tell the storm to stop and it works. What if I rebuked the storm and it didn't stop? It would solidify the fact that I was not hearing God. My faith would be destroyed. But if I ignored God, I could continue telling myself I was doing the best that could be expected of me in this situation.

Rebuke or ignore the voice of God? The storms within were greater than the storms without.

I had decided to rebuke the storm. In the name of Jesus I told the rain, the wind, the thunder, the lightning so stop. What had I just done? Soon, a wave a peace filled my heart. The storm ceased. I could not believe what had just happened. In the valley of the shadow of death, with suffering and mortality looming over my head, Jesus has led me beside the still waters.

Five months have passed since that night. Isaiah was formally diagnosed with an aggressive form of Neuroblastoma, which had spread to other parts of his body. He has amazingly withstood six rounds of strong chemotherapy, another extensive surgery to remove the tumor, and is currently undergoing a bone marrow transplant. I am sure I have used the biblical term "the peace that passes all understanding" to comfort someone in the past, but now I know what that passage means. I am filled with peace that I actually cannot comprehend. I should not be filled with peace and joy, but I am. The storms within have been stilled. I sleep.