Kelly M. Kapic - Embodied Hope: A Theological Meditation on Pain and Suffering

She didnt just tell me. I was at home with the kids, and she was at the grocery store. The kids played; I messed about the house, picking things up and preparing for dinner. But then, out of nowhere, I was struck with a deep panic. Something was wrong. Suddenly I felt that Tabitha had been gone a bit too long, and I was overcome with strange fears. We had been seeing doctors and going through exams, but, for whatever reason, in that moment these were not the things that came to mind. I tried calling her phone; no answer. I texted. Nothing. Called againnothing. My initial fears grew exponentially, and without explanation I told my three-year-old daughter and five-year-old son, Get in the car, hurry.

We started to rush down Lookout MountainI knew I would find her car wrecked and thrown from the road and her life in great jeopardy. As I sped down, I held my breath at every bend waiting to see the ambulances, to hear the sirens, and to smell the smoke. But then, halfway down the mountain I saw her driving up in our other car. She gently waved and pointed back up. A deep relief swept over my body. She was okay. No accident. As soon as I could, I turned our car around and headed home.

After the fear that had gripped me I was surprised and relieved to find her calm. We ate a nice little meal, and then she sent the kids off to play in a different part of the house. Sitting me down, she waited till then to tell me the news. She had received the call, and the doctor confirmed she had cancer. While she had been sitting alone in the parking lot of the grocery store with the doctors voice in her ear, it had started to lightly rain, as if the gentle tears of God were falling upon her.

She had waited, learning long ago a truth she has often repeated to meIt is always better to tell someone hard things after they have eaten. Well, she had held it together and cared for the family, but now it was time to face reality. Our lives were forever changed. Cancer had infiltrated our family and stricken my wife. There we sat with no answers, not even much energy for questions, just the first waves of grief at what all this would mean. Something terrible had happened on June 9, 2008. It wasnt a car accident, but it did feel like a massive pile of wreckage was threatening to crush us under its weight.

After cancer was detected, I watched my wife courageously and gracefully go through the diagnosis, the surgeries, and the treatments that followed; she would add that she did it imperfectly. Even as I watched her, I was unprepared for the weight of that watching, for the weight of walking beside a suffering one.

Eventually she was declared cancer free. That does not mean scar free or unchanged, but we were thankful. She returned to more normal patterns, actively centering our family, ably engaging in her role at an international humanitarian organization, even enjoying running and hiking with the kids again. We had gotten through the hard thing, and God had preserved us. So much to be thankful for, even amid the challenges.

But then in May 2010 Tabitha called me from the side of the road. She had just been meeting with some pastors about the possibility of planting churches in Haiti. (This was after the devastating earthquake of January 2010.) With uncertainty in her voice she explained, Im not sure I can drive home. I dont know whats happening, but there are shooting pains up my legs when I press the clutch or brake. New fears and no good answers. A brain tumor? Multiple sclerosis? What was happening to her body now?

It took us over six years, but we finally got a diagnosis from Mayo Clinic. Tabitha has connective tissue disease, a condition in her experience characterized by debilitating pain in all four limbs, and in her hands and feet. It has not eased through the years; it is slowly moving further up her limbs and remains a daily, even hourly, presence in her and our lives. Somewhere along the way, she also developed a rare disorder called erythromelalgia, or man on fire syndrome. Mayo Clinic confirmed this diagnosis as well and the doctor visits and treatment trials continue.

Most people who see her would not guess that this most active and able woman has at times been bedridden or at least severely restricted by her pain and ever-present fatigue. She doesnt like to draw attention to it, which we wrestled through as we debated if we should do this book. Her pain has meant significant changes to all areas of life, from family to church, from work to leisure. If people ask her what has been harder, cancer or dealing with chronic pain, she would certainly say that, in her case, it is the chronic pain. Night or day, there is no getting away from it, like an unwelcome companion who simply will not leave. Always there, always nagging. Always!

Professionally, I am trained as a theologian. I work at a liberal arts college beautifully tucked away on Lookout Mountain, Georgia, overlooking Chattanooga, Tennessee. Although I have a PhD, I find that I rarely know what I thinkreally thinkabout something until I have had to write about it. Only as I meditate on Scripture, listen to others, read the reflections of those from centuries past, raise questions, grapple with implications of what I believe, and anticipate objectionsnot only from others but from my own heartonly then, as I start to put words on the page, do I begin to gain a sense for what I think, even how I feel about something. This may sound strange to others, but it is commonly my experience.