I’ve had a lot of thoughts over the past six months about the cost of a resurrection, with a lowercase “r.” (There’s no doubt in my mind that the Resurrection, with the capital “R,” is well worth waiting for.) 

As a survivor of two types of cancer, a broken hip and Parkinson’s disease, I’ve often been told I should aspire to physical healing — and if I don’t receive it, that would be evidence of my lack of faith.

Over the years I both embraced and resisted this message. It’s enticing when one has one’s back against the wall. It fits with our theology that if we just do more — if we just have more faith, if we just are better — then God will reward us with a new start this side of eternity. If we’re not healed, then it’s our fault. 

This is a theology that Jesus unapologetically rebutted — that our illnesses are the result of our sin.

I have wasted a lot of time feeling guilty and trying harder. 

I once had a friend who desperately wanted to be healed of cancer but eventually came to the place where she told me that even if she could be healed in this life, she would turn away from it. 

Why? Because she would never want to undo the healing she had found within, the personal and spiritual transformation she experienced through suffering. 

That’s not a message that sells. Can you imagine a sermon titled, “God has bigger things in store than your healing”?

As I consider my physical transformation over the past six months (the result of a deep-brain-stimulation pulse generator implanted just below my collarbone), know that I have much to be thankful for. But the greatest struggle has been emotional and spiritual.

Now I have a lot of questions. 

How does one step into a new identity no longer shaped by chronic illness? 

How does one engage with people again after seven years of conversations dominated by illness? 

What does one do with the awareness that it is my social position and good fortune that gave me this opportunity, while so many others never receive it? 

How does one adjust to the new light that is streaming in through what could have been such a small hole to the outside world? 

How does one move from death to life? 

How do I relate to people who have not been where I’ve been, whose ­theology has not been shaped by suffering, who seem satisfied with a way of life that seems superficial to me now?

How does one deal with the thought that some people were happier with the sick version of me?

(I’ll try to explain the last one: We accept roles — and the rules assigned to those roles — without even trying. Despite resisting the sick role, I had assumed it nonetheless — and others had adjusted how they saw me. The surgery brought healing, but this healing was more outward than inward. Inward healing has taken much longer for me — and I sense the same is true for those around me, though they are happy to see me doing so well. All such healings require change, which may be easier for both the self and others to live without.)  

I often think of the blind man in John 9 whose healing resulted in being cast out of the church and disowned by his parents. Did he ever wonder if his resurrection was worth it? Might he have been better off remaining anonymous, beyond the righteous church leaders’ glaring notice? 

But Jesus finds him. Jesus sees him. Jesus heals his emotions.

Because Jesus knew his greatest struggles were yet to come. Jesus knew that in healing this man he had caused problems the man was not prepared for. Jesus knew that the man’s greatest need was a spiritual transformation. So Jesus gave that to the man also.

I think of Lazarus, miraculously raised from the dead only to find himself on the receiving end of death threats. I wonder if the thought didn’t go through his mind, “I wish Jesus had just left me alone.” 

I’m thankful Jesus understands life on this side of the resurrection. He, too, didn’t find it easy after the tomb — what with the unbelief and doubts of those who knew him best.

But he left us with a promise never to forsake us as long as life shall last and we finally reach Home.