Who’s In Charge?

The Beginning

 

1.  Who’s In Charge?

 

Dance isn’t a form of life; it’s a way of life.[2]

“So we fix our eyes, not on what is seen but what is unseen.  For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”[3]

We all tend to prescribe the answers to our prayers.  We think that God can come in only one way.  But Scripture teaches us that God sometimes answers our prayers by allowing things to become much worse before they become better.   He may sometimes do the opposite of what we anticipate ...Yet it is a fundamental principle in the life and walk of faith that we must always be prepared for the unexpected when we are dealing with God.[4]

 

I stood at the half-open door of Vicki’s hospital bathroom and listened to her sobbing.  This certainly wasn’t the first time I had heard her cry, but this time the sounds were so different, coming from somewhere deep within her being.  They sounded raw, edgy and strange.

When she was younger Vicki had had her share of pulled muscles, bumps and bruises.  A cheerleader in high school and college, she had lucked out and never had a broken bone or stitches.  But now she was at Johnston-Willis Hospital, having faced the first surgery of her life.

For twenty-five years I had seen her express the gamut of human emotions.  

On our wedding day, as soon as I began to say my vows, she looked up, into my eyes, and a little silver teardrop quickly formed.  While it made its way down her cheek she beamed while she mouthed the words, “I love you.” 

Years later, when each of our boys were born, she shed tears of joy.  On the night we saw the movie Titanic, Vicki wept softly as Leonardo DiCaprio slipped out of the grasp of his lover and into the dark waters of the North Atlantic.  When “her dog,” Jazz ran headfirst into our foyer’s glass storm door Vicki belly laughed so hard she had to run for the bathroom.

There were rare times Vicki had cried relentlessly, like the day she received one of those phone calls … the kind we all dread.  Her dad gently told us Granny had passed away suddenly.  Vicki’s paternal grandmother had been her childhood playmate, spiritual mentor, and a most intimate friend.  Her death was the first in Vicki’s immediate family.  She soaked her pillow with tears that day, then fell into bed, exhausted.

Many times I had watched her laugh ‘til she cried and cry ‘til she laughed.  Vic was the complete package when it came to feelings, and I thought I’d seen it all.

As I stood at her hospital bathroom door that post-surgery day listening to her sob, I’ve got to tell you, I was initially caught off guard.  Shortly, however, my instincts kicked in.  Most men fancy themselves to be “fixers.”  You know what I mean.  We feel like men when we can offer a way to successfully deal with a problem.  I’m that way.  I’m all male.  I feel fulfilled when I can provide an explanation for something mysterious, an answer to a question, a resolution to a conflict, or a way out of a jam.

Listening to my wife sobbing, I desperately wanted to be her hero …  come to her rescue.  After all, I was her husband and that’s what husbands do.  She needed my help, and I thought I could stick some kind of Band-Aid on her wounded heart and she’d be okay. 

I was also her pastor.

I confidently opened the door only to stop dead in my tracks.  Her face was so red I thought, “How can she see?  Her eyes are so puffy … they’re almost closed.”  She looked like she had just come out of a boxing ring … the loser. 

But if her appearance initially surprised me, what she said next momentarily paralyzed me.  Between those funky, gulping-attempts-to-catch-her-breath sobs that we all have when we’re about cried out, she was able to stutter, “Lowell … I’m … afraid!  I’m … losing … myself.”  This supposedly all-sufficient husband had no response for that. 

Weakly … and slowly … I backed out, closing the door while still looking at her scarlet, swollen face.  I staggered to a corner of her room, knelt in front of a rocking chair, and buried my face in the seat cushion.  I felt like such a coward, such a fool.  So inept.  So incompetent.  So clumsy.  “God … I love her … I don’t know what to do,” I cried.  “I’m in way over my head!”

A few weeks before she had gone in to see her OBGYN for her annual exam and he hadn’t liked what he had seen.  He had suggested that a more thorough investigation was warranted.  Not long into the procedure he stopped, picked up the phone in the outpatient surgical theater, and called Dr. Charles “Chip” Jones III.

Charles Jones is a phenomenal gynecologic surgeon.  Well-known and respected on the East Coast, his services were (and still are) much in demand.  At the time Vicki was in surgery Dr. Jones was all the way across the city of Richmond, Virginia, at Henrico Doctors Hospital.  That’s where he had his office.  He also had a floor reserved for his patients only, and a handpicked staff.  He dropped what he was doing and came straight over. 

The first time I met Dr. Jones I was in the outpatient surgery waiting room.  I had been pacing the floor, wondering why a 45-minute procedure was taking over two hours, when a set of double doors noisily opened.  Vicki’s doctor walked toward me with a grim look on his face.  He introduced me to “the new guy” with a word that instantly changed my life:  “Rev. Qualls, this is Dr. Charles Jones, and he’s a gynecologic oncologist.”

I became a little dizzy.  The word “oncologist” seemed to hang in the air for a moment.  Every head in the waiting room turned in my direction; they were now waiting to see my reaction.  I could feel their stares. 

As a pastor, I had been through moments like this with other families.  That afternoon I had no pastor standing with me.  I recall, I never felt so alone.

I couldn’t feel my legs but I felt myself walking … gliding across the carpet … my head still swimming.  The three of us retreated to a private counseling room where Dr. Jones explained that he and Vicki’s OBGYN had removed her uterus, fallopian tubes and ovaries, and that those body parts were now on their way to the pathology department where they would be meticulously examined. 

Both surgeons were sure, based on their experience, that Vicki had some form of cancer.  Dr. Jones added in blunt terms that Vicki was about to enter, as a forty-five year old woman, the destabilizing world of surgically induced menopause.  It was too much information but I remember all of it.  (Two days later pathology would verify that Vicki had both ovarian and endometrial cancers.)

I don’t remember how I got to Vicki’s room.  She hadn’t arrived yet so I had a short time to gather my thoughts, cry a little, and pray one-or-two-word prayers.   I sat in a faux leather chair, still lightheaded, and began breathing out, “Oh, God …”  “Jesus …”

It wasn’t long before two nurses wheeled my sleeping wife into the room.  They were in and out in no time, no doubt trying to avoid having to answer all the questions they knew were flooding my mind.  A moment or two later I had this sense that I was once again very alone, even though Vicki was there.  “Where are You, God,” I wondered aloud.

Vic looked like a plastic version of herself.  I watched her chest rise and fall with each unassisted breath.  I noticed – her head was turned to expose her carotid artery – that I could see her pulse.  I watched it move rhythmically just beneath the skin.  And she looked so little … so vulnerable. 

It was pretty quiet in the room – just the beeps and whirls emitted by the monitors tracking her vital signs, the sounds of her slow but steady breathing, and me … whispering prayers.

Dr. Jones arrived shortly and disturbed the peace.  In future meetings his bedside manner would be awesome – one of the best doctors I’ve ever known when it comes to doctor-patient interaction.  But this first tête-à-tête meeting was all business.  He briefly glanced at me, and then nudged Vicki out of her chemically induced sleep.  As she came to he started right in.  “Hello, Mrs. Qualls.  I’m Dr. Charles Jones.  I assisted your OBGYN today.”

There was no pause.  The words flew from his mouth like machine gun bullets, and just as hot.  “We had to remove your uterus, fallopian tubes and ovaries because we saw some things we didn’t like.  We both believe you have some form of endometrial cancer (and he explained what that meant).  Do you have any questions for me?”

I had a ton of questions, but he never gave me a look that said, “What about you?”  This visit was all about his new patient.

Vicki’s eyes had closed again, and I wondered if she had fallen back asleep, or if the bad news had caused her to pull into herself like she would occasionally do.  But then, with eyes still closed, she genteelly replied, in stark contrast to Dr. Jones’ staccato style, “No … I don’t think so.”

Dr. Jones pressed.  “Do you have anything you want to say?”

Vicki opened her eyes, looked at me, then at Dr. Jones, and back to me.  There was no fog present, or groggy muttering.  “God is in control,” she said clear as a bell.  And with that she went back to sleep.

Someone once said, “Dancers are the athletes of God.”[5]  When Vicki said, “God is in control” she was showing her athleticism.  She had been in rigorous training for years.

It’s easier for many people to accept the notion that God is in control of the Universe when everything is going well, but it’s not so easy to believe it when our personal world is rocked by economic downturns, disappointment, disease, divorce or death.  To believe it then, when life’s not so good, when you’ve been told you have cancer, takes being a dancer in remarkable shape.

A lady wrote me a note after hearing of Vicki’s post-surgery declaration.  She said, “Most women would never be able to respond to bad news with something like that.”  After I put the note down I realized hearing just that slice of her story would cause most people to think Vicki was made out of gold dust.  You know, not regular dust like the rest of us.  Her declaration sounded like “she is from above and we are from below.”  I think that’s why the lady used the word, “never.”  She hadn’t known Vicki personally.  She didn’t know her history.

So, how did Vicki get to the place where she could say that God was in control of her world?

Well, it wasn’t easy.  If you had told Vicki years before that critical moment that she would say, “God is in control,” after receiving the news she had cancer … she wouldn’t have believed you.  Oh, she had dreamed that one day her life would make God proud.  She had hoped, as a younger wife and mom, that when the going got tough she would rise to life’s challenges.  But in her wildest imaginings she would never have dreamed something that tranquil and trusting would come out of her mouth, and straight from her heart.

You’ll be relieved to know that Vicki was NOT perfect, or particularly strong or special.  I know.  I lived with her.  And she knew it, too.  She would want you to know it.  She felt average.  She often would say to me, “I wish I wasn’t so ordinary.” 

Vicki knew she had “some issues,” as she was fond of calling them.  For example, she complained that her love was, many times, conditional.  In other words, she felt she had a tendency to show “love” when she thought someone deserved it or had earned enough brownie points.  She admitted that her acceptance, approval, and affection was, many times, performance driven, that is, based on your performance.  She detested that part of her personality and saw it as a serious character flaw.

Early in her adult life Vicki also had terrible self-esteem issues, in spite of the FACT that she was drop-dead gorgeous.  That’s not just in my “love-is-blind” opinion, but that of the multitudes.  Amazingly, she didn’t like everything she saw in the mirror.  She said her face was too round, her little toes were ugly, or certain parts of her anatomy were too small or too big … yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.  I told her she was nuts.

Vicki would even complain that, while she was intelligent, she was “… never brilliant.”  Her words.  Me, on the other hand … I thought she was especially bright when she agreed with me.  (She never thought that was funny.)

From time to time she observed that our house was “never” orderly or straight.  She made sure the toilets were clean, but there were still piles of clothes everywhere.  There were crumbs on the counters and cobwebs in the corners.   I was responsible for the dishes, taking out the trash, and vacuuming the floors.  General cleanup was her baby, but there always seemed to be something else that needed to be done.  That would explain the small but strategically placed plaque on our kitchen wall that read, “A clean house is a sign of a wasted life.”

Vicki was a confessed pack rat.  She admitted being the poster child for pack rats.  She never threw anything away.  You can’t believe the stuff I would find stashed in our attic, or in the bottom of closets.

And then there was her temper.  There are folks who will never believe that Vicki had one.  They are the folks who never experienced “the wrath of Vic!”  But I’m telling you – while she was a little woman, and I’m a pretty big man – I avoided crossing her.  Guys who are married to little women will understand what I’m talking about.

Yes, Vicki wasn’t perfect, but in the last twenty-plus years of our marriage I saw fantastic, measurable and real changes.  At some point in time Vicki decided not to let her perceived or real imperfections define her.  She purposefully decided to work at being “a lady.”  Again, those are her words, not mine.  And eventually, through trial and error and tears and conflict and forgiveness and repentance and prayer and laughter, she didn’t have to try to be a lady any more.  She just was. 

Again, some women might think, “She sounds perfect!  My husband … my children … my friends … my family … my employer or employees would never think I’m a lady.  That’ll never happen!  Not with my baggage.” 

I guess if you think that way long enough you never will see any change in your life.  People tend to fulfill their own prophecies.  I’ve seen it; we all have.

But Vicki decided to swim against the current of her confessed, imperfect nature.  She would not settle.  She intentionally became ruthlessly honest with herself, and with God.

Talk about being real and honest with God, from time to time Vicki would become frustrated with His silence.  She had a hard time coping with what she called “His quiet times,” and she let God know it … but always reverently.  She would walk around in our house at times and shout, “The heavens seem to be made of brass today!”  That was Vic’s way of saying that her prayers were going up and then bouncing right back in her face – as if God was surrounded by some kind of metallic shield.  Vicki couldn’t stand those times.  She felt God should never be distant when she needed Him.  She wasn’t shy about telling Him how she felt. 

Never impertinent or impious, Vicki understood her place in the cosmos.  And His.   He was the King of the Universe.  But she also knew Him as “Abba[6]-Father,” or “Daddy-God.”  I felt she did a masterful job of balancing His “otherness” with intimacy.

To illustrate what I mean, I’ll jump way ahead in the story and share what she wrote on May 30, 2000:

I’m learning to trust You, God, [but] I’ve been so frustrated that You haven’t been speaking to me.  I’ve been praying, begging, and pleading for You to give me direction.  What path do I take in my cancer treatment?  How can I please You if I don’t know what You want?  How can I be obedient if I don’t know what to obey?  I’ve been frantically reading, making phone calls, and watching videos to try to do my part in giving You a way to speak to me … and still NOTHING!

 

That’s being direct but not impious, don’t you think? 

Later that same day she was able to write: 

You’re talking to me and I love it!  On my walk today I felt You say, ‘Come on Vicki, dance with me,’ and I remembered that on the few occasions when Lowell and I have danced together I always tried to lead.  [Lowell] always had to say to me, ‘Vicki, follow me.  Let ME lead.’

“I actually laughed out loud and said, ‘Okay God, I’ll dance with You … and I’ll let You lead!’

“When you’re the dance partner, you don’t know ahead of time where you’ll be led, but you trust your partner and move with them just a split second after they move.  I like to know where I’m going … but that doesn’t seem to fit the plan this time. 

“I think He’s [God] is teaching me to trust Him in a way I’ve never had to trust Him before – not with Brandon’s rebellion or Lowell’s depression.[7]  At least I felt like I knew where God was going with that.  But not this time.  I haven’t had any direct word in my spirit about the outcome of this.  Will I live or will I die?  Somehow, I don’t even think that’s the main point.  There’s so much more at stake here than whether I live or die.  I’m going to die one day anyway.

“This has been a wonderful wake-up call.  I’ve determined in my heart that I want to make every day count that I have left … whether it’s one year or fifty.  I have a purpose; a wonderful purpose … and it’s to glorify God and draw people to Him.  I know I can’t do it in my own strength, but if I remain IN Him, I will bear much fruit.[8]  I’ve got to keep my eyes on Him and off of my fleeting circumstances.  Help me, Lord.”

 

On that day, like no other, Vicki came to see her relationship with God as a dance.  That day’s Divine Encounter would help her better understand how to live.  God had invited her into a sweet, dancing partnership.  He would end up leading most of the time.  And instead of ballrooms and discos, Vicki would boogie and shag within the familiar confines of her family room.  She would dance, gracefully, like a lady, in surgical theaters and hospital rooms.  She would swing in church auditoriums; she would waltz on dusty village streets in Kenya and Tanzania.  Sometimes she would exuberantly twist and stomp, with her head back, laughing to the sky.  Many times she would dance sur les pointes beautifully (“on point” – as a ballerina), with her head held regally high. 

And then there were the times Vicki would fall flat on her face or her butt.

The Dance of Life.  It has a beginning and it has an end, so to speak. 

Vic’s Divine Dance began when she was five years old.  That’s when she put her small hand in God’s big one and first felt the powerful tenderness of His grip.  At that young age she fell in love with the Creator.  Over the years she learned to respond to His voice, and even His whispers.  Sometimes she felt as if she was dancing so close that she could hear the beat of His heart.

On November 29th, 2003, a little past 2:30 in the afternoon, Vicki would dance her last steps on this lowly, fallen planet, and take her last breath of its polluted air.  In those twinkling moments she was caught up in God’s warm embrace, swept off her feet, and transported into the presence of the “great cloud of witnesses.”

I believe she is still dancing, but now face-to-Face. 

In the days leading up to her departure we held hands and said, “Lord, please help us tell our story in a way that will give our readers ‘an eternal perspective.’”   We prayed for you.  We believed then, and I still believe it:  everyone needs to learn how to “dance with the Healer.” 

We’re all going to do the Dance.  How we do it, and with whom – that’s our choice.

 

“And a one and a two …”