By Damaris Christensen

Hope Survives

It stays afloat, even through the stormiest of times

By Damaris Christensen

Illustration by Laszlo Kubinyi

Over the last year, I have had the opportunity to walk with a variety of people who opened their hearts to me—and to readers of CR—as they shared their struggles and hopes about dealing with cancer. People have articulated a variety of things that sustain them and give them strength for the journey. Some swim, some play with their kids, some pray, some participate in advocacy for others, some laugh, some reach out to meet other people’s needs—drawing on their own experiences.

There is something about living with cancer, working with people with cancer, or sharing a relationship with a cancer survivor that reminds us about the importance of the current moment, of the small joys of life and laughter and companionship. Perhaps my most enduring image from writing this series of stories for CR is of Suzanne Lindley describing the baseball cap she made her doctor after her diagnosis with terminal cancer some 11 years ago: “I Am Terminal,” it read on the front, and “So Are You,” on the back. To me, this encapsulates hope. Yes, Lindley’s diagnosis is serious, and her body is scarred from surgeries and treatments; but her scars have not prevented her from living in the fierce joy of the moment. Or, to put it another way, our hopes may change, but the fact that we hope stays constant.

As much as most of us want to control what happens to us, we are limited in our ability to do so. But we do have some ability to control how we view and respond to deep troubles. One image I have carried with me for many years is of a vaselike fountain overflowing with water. Its beauty lies in the abundance of water that ripples and sparkles in the sunlight as it falls from the rim. We can think of our needs as the water held within the vase. The vase must be filled before the fountain can overflow. The smaller the vase’s base, the more possibility for abundance there is. In other words, the less we think we need, the more abundance there is in our life. I think coping with cancer forces people to confront questions of what is enough. Not always, but often, the answer is a redefinition of needs and a joyful recognition of abundance—even when this joy comes in the midst of real sorrow.

Writing this series has reminded me of the many places where I catch glimpses of God: in the warmth and beauty of the sunlit world; in cancer survivor Ben Fay’s wry humor as he jokes about his prostate surgery making biking easier; in the joyful tears of the cancer patient who, until she met survivor John McKemie, did not know that someone with her disease could live for decades; in the twinge of my heart as my former chaplain colleague Barbara Emery told me, “Allowing life to hurt us and affect us is an expression of hope.”

I’m still trying to discern where my own journey will take me next. In the process of writing this series, I’ve been reminded that hope sometimes takes us to places where we never thought we’d be—and that life sometimes takes us to places where we never thought we’d be, and hope springs up to meet us there.