A few weeks after my youngest daughter was born, I went in for gallbladder surgery. I was hoping it would resolve some health struggles that had developed over the prior few months. Instead, I woke up to the news that doctors had found a tumor behind the gallbladder, stretching from my liver to my pancreas.
I was surprised to feel a sudden peace. I had lived a good life. I knew whom I had trusted. But it was still difficult for me to think about leaving my children so soon. I doubted the youngest two would remember me.
After some additional tests, doctors told me I had a strong chance of survival with the help of some intensive chemotherapy. I ended up going through a year of treatment. For part of it, I traveled from my home in Utah to Houston, Texas, for a clinical trial that pushed my body past what I thought were its limits.
During that time, I looked forward to the breaks between chemotherapy cycles. But my immune system was weak. I was often hospitalized with runaway infections. One time, while I was in Texas, recovering at a cousin’s house, a bad fever sent me to the nearest hospital, St. Luke’s. My body was still torn up from the last round of chemotherapy. With the heat and ache in my head, I couldn’t sleep. I remember using ice packs like pillows, just trying to get some rest. It wouldn’t come.
I remember talking to God then. I told God I understand that suffering is part of His plan and that it can help us. But I also told Him that He had overdone it. The pain was too bad to think straight. Too bad to hope. Too bad, almost, to want anything more than an end. I couldn’t imagine this experience being for my experience or turning to my good. “If you’re trying to bake a cake,” I told God, “you’ve burned it.”
But through the haze of my fevered thoughts, a strong impression came to me. The scriptures never compare us to cake. They compare us to silver being refined.
Humbled by that realization, I did my best to accept the pain, to believe in what I couldn’t imagine—that God would make something out of this. And as I turned my eyes up, they caught sight of a crucifix on the wall: a visual reminder that Christ was suffering with me.
I still don’t know why life is so hard. Sometimes, when I read in history about the price some people have paid due to others’ oppression and prejudice, I still find myself overwhelmed. It seems like too much. But I remember Jesus’s broken body, His presence, and His promise for all of us poor, battered people in need.
Editor’s note: This article first appeared in the September/October issue of LDS Living.
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