Cindy and Susie were schooled on a converted bus, rolling down the highways of America en route to concerts and services. One day I hope to pass along the fascinating adventures of our traveling experiences and the encounters that colored our lives.
Cindy married Mark Larson and they have three children: Rachel, Daniel and Andrew. Suzanne (Susie) married Nathan Young and they have two boys, Elijah and Benjamin. Our two delightful daughters and their families are the joy of our lives. You will get to know them better as you read.
The message we have delivered has not changed, lo these many years, although the method has. The anointing upon the music and the Word still breaks the yoke of bondage. We are amazed by the providence of the Almighty and the circumstances He allows to make us better-conditioned vessels.
One: Prepare the Soil
The bleeding and pain that had plagued my body for several months could no longer be ignored. Keeping secrets from Levoy was not my habit, but I felt I had to handle the problem myself. Something unusual was happening to me, but I did not wish to disrupt our lives. With our busy traveling schedule, we had precious little time to ourselves, and taking sick days was out of the question...so I thought. I have always seen the glass half full, so it was easy to put my concerns aside and deal with them at a more convenient time. Still, my sleep was interrupted by nagging suspicions about my health.
Could it be that Daddy’s recent death has made me more sensitive about my own mortality? Maybe I have an overactive imagination and things are not as bad as they seem.
I was not aware of it at first, but God was preparing the soil of my heart for a very different season.
Lord, You have heard the desire of the humble; You will prepare their heart... (Psalm 10:17 – NKJV)
When my mother visited us in Nashville, I casually mentioned that I was passing blood. The crochet in her eighty-plus year old hands quickly dropped to her lap. She fixed her piercing green eyes on her only daughter, leaned slightly forward, and pressed for more details. I took a deep breath and tried to appear casual as I described the symptoms. I reassured her, “Don’t worry about it, Mother. There’s probably nothing to be concerned about.”
What was I thinking? I’ve said too much already. Oh, if only I could retrieve those words that escaped my mouth. But it’s too late, now.
Mother slept little that night.
I was usually the first one in the household to arise. When aroma of the freshly brewed coffee from the automatic pot wafted across my senses, I would be on my feet and ready to greet the day. On this particular morning I was surprised to see Mother sitting at the kitchen table waiting for me. She held a medical book from the house library. Her worries over what had been said the evening before prompted her to do some research. The somber countenance etched on her face indicated that she had discovered some unsettling facts. She was convinced that I had signs of colon cancer.
As I reached into the cupboard for two cups and poured the steaming coffee, her troubled gaze followed my every move. I attempted to change the subject...nothing doing. By nature, Mother was not pushy, but this time she could not be dissuaded. I leaned across the table, patted her hand, still clutching the medical book, and promised to call my doctor soon. Next week would be a better time. A doctor’s appointment would put a damper on the special plans we had made for each day of her visit. The words sounded hollow as I reminded her that the offices at the hospital didn’t open until 9:00 a.m. She watched the clock. At exactly five minutes after the hour she handed me the phone.
Dr. Benjamin Caldwell had been my gynecologist for more than twenty years. He knew I was not easily shaken. After his nurse explained the urgency, he worked me in his schedule the next day. What I heard in his office stunned me. After a thorough examination, Dr. Caldwell was certain that I had advanced colorectal cancer. I had never seen him appear that somber; the look on his face spoke volumes. His assistant immediately called a specialist, whose office was directly across the street. Dr. Caldwell told me later, “I thought I was looking at a walking dead woman.”
Dr. Benjamin Fisher was one of the leading colorectal surgeons in the southeast. His voice sounded strangely far away when he pronounced his diagnosis: “You have colorectal cancer.” It was Suzanne’s birthday, September 5, 1994. It seemed inappropriate to hear such news on my daughter’s special day.
Who is he talking to?
I glanced nervously around the room, but I could not escape the fact that he was talking to me. For an instant, my brain could not absorb what I was hearing.
The instinct to defend myself kicked into gear. Questions tumbled out of my dry mouth, one after another. “I am not that sick. Are you sure this is cancer? Don’t you know that I’ve had these same symptoms before, and they weren’t serious?” The argument indicated serious denial.
I was the only one talking. Levoy’s hand was on my shoulder. Cindy bit her lip, holding back tears. The cold leather of the chair was bone-chilling. My mind was whirling. I felt vulnerable, too shocked to cry. I wanted to run.
Dr. Fisher explained the prognosis in layman’s terms. “The cancer is a fast moving lesion that involves the rectal muscle. That complicates everything. Cancer is even more critical when a muscle is involved, because of the blood supply. This usually impedes the cure. Its very nature complicates the possibility of stopping the spread of disease. You have a big problem with this thing.”
His plan of action was decisive. He stressed the urgency of starting treatments as soon as possible. Arrangements for chemotherapy and radiation would be set within the next two days. The objective was to reduce the tumor, which was the size of a tennis ball. Surgery was not feasible at that time. The cancer was aggressive and drastic measures had to be taken to shrink the mass and annihilate it, if possible. Nothing would be spared, medically speaking, to stop this rapidly moving killer.
Everything was happening too fast.
He must be talking about someone else…another patient. Yes, that’s it. He has the wrong information. That’s probably not even my folder in his hand. Dr. Caldwell said, just yesterday, that I have symptoms of cancer. But, Dr. Fisher…he’s a specialist. I didn’t expect this.
Only a few days prior to Dr. Fisher’s diagnosis, I had read an article in a popular magazine by a doctor in Europe who was a proponent of unconventional methods of curing cancer. I told Dr. Fisher that I remembered something about apricot seeds proving successful in the early treatment of malignant tumors. The doctor abruptly interrupted. Slightly built and in his early 70s, Dr. Fisher stood as he pushed back his chair; he leaned over his large mahogany desk, pointing a finger at me to emphasize the importance of what he said. He did not mince words or try to soften the blow; he cleared his throat and looked me squarely in the eyes, slowly pronouncing a death sentence: “Lady, please listen to me. You will not be here for Christmas if there’s not a turnaround in your condition. There are no options. Once again, it’s very late for you.”
I sat motionless and listened to words I could not begin to comprehend. My trembling fingers counted on the surface of my purse.
October...November...December.
Three months to live. The words shocked me like a bolt of lightning. The prognosis could not be clearer. Dr. Fisher finally had my attention.
Oh, how I would like to say that I was totally engulfed by feelings of euphoric victory at that moment; that no prognosis could have a negative effect on me, but the truth was very different.
Many years ago, my father-in-law was knocked off a ladder by 440 volts of electricity and landed on his feet. Outwardly, Dad Dewey appeared to be fine, but he bore the inner effects of that trauma for the duration of his life. Hearing that I had terminal cancer, I looked okay from the outside, but inside I was emotionally ripped apart.
As