Hope is Rising in my Soul

One girl’s journey through pain and into joy
An Autobiography
By Anna Jefferis

It’s been 5 years since the journey began, but I remember it like it was just the other day. It was 2003 and I was 13 years old. I sat on my bed, Indian style, with my Bible open to 1 Peter 1:3-9 and read these words –
“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade – kept in heaven for you, who through faith are shielded by God’s power until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come so that your faith – of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire – may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed. Though you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy, for you are receiving the goal of your faith, the salvation of your souls.”
I had been raised in a Christian home my whole life, had been baptized at the age of 8 and prayed the “Sinner’s prayer” at the age of 10, but I had never taken part in a relationship with Jesus, until that night.
As I pondered the words from 1 Peter I was overcome with emotions I had never felt. A passion birthed from tears welling up in my chest. I wanted to know that ‘inexpressible and glorious joy’. I wanted to live that exciting life. I wanted to be completely available to this God. I wanted Him to use me.
I thought about the love of God that I had always been taught. I thought of His mercy and goodness. I thought of my parents who lived out such an example of reliance on Jesus. I especially thought of my Dad, who had told me stories about God and heaven. My Dad’s enormous passion for the gospel danced in his eyes when he talked about it. I wanted to know that joy for myself.
I read over the passage once more and whispered this prayer: “Dear Lord, I want to know You. I want to follow You. I want to suffer for Your name. I want to share in the glory of Your name. Please do with me whatever You want. Take my life and use it, make a difference through me. I love You. Use me, Lord. Amen.”
Little did I know how literally that prayer would be taken or how much it would change my life – forever.

***

Times were tough for us that year. My Dad, who had always been a sculptor, took several extra jobs, one of which was working at a wood mill. It was early November of that same year when it happened. Dad was making a delivery one day and stumbled, slamming his head into the lumber he was carrying. He had a sever fall and went to the hospital where he was told he had a concussion.
My Mom, sister and I went to visit Dad in the hospital. I remember hugging him, hospital gown and all, and telling him that he was the best Dad ever. I never liked hospitals, especially after my Grandfather had died, and I was looking forward to my Dad coming home. I wondered why the doctors kept him so long, why they were running so many tests, and why my Mom looked so worried. I didn’t know much about medicine but I knew a concussion was no big deal.
One November night my Mom, sister, a family friend Molly and I went to visit Dad, he had asked the nurse if we could use a private conference room to talk. I was worried, why did we need to talk in there? And why was Molly with us? I started to get defensive.
Dad had us sit down and took my hand. “What’s going on?” I asked. “I have something I need to tell you”, he said. I was scared now. “I have cancer,” the words cut me like a sword, “brain cancer.” I wanted to scream, I looked around the room, the hot tears flooding my eyes. “But it’s ok,” he continued, “I get to be with Jesus”.
How could he? How could he die!? Was this some kind of morbid joke? I was only 13 years old, already confused by life. My world began to spin, faster, faster. I became dizzy. Dad squeezed my hand; I wanted to pull away, to withdraw from the world. Maybe then I would be safe.

***

Molly took Susan home while Mom and I went to the grocery store. We needed bread, eggs and talk time.
“Remember how God reminded me of our vows a while ago? For better or worse, in sickness and in health. I think God was preparing me for this.” I knew Mom was right. God had been preparing all of us for the past few months.
I held on to Mom’s arm as we got all our comfort foods. We talked a little more about how the next few weeks were going to go, when doctor appointments would be and who was going to make meals. Then, in the middle of the grocery store between the ice cream and the juices, we hugged. We hugged and we cried.
By time we pulled in the garage we were able to laugh through our tears. Molly had brought Susan home and was waiting for us. Dad had stayed at the hospital. My emotions were running rampant. I wanted to laugh and cry and to scream. I remember there was a very warm glow about our house, a stark contrast to the muted colors of the hospital. Even though everything was falling apart, there was a sense of safety in our home.
The tone of the adults was very sober and I made my way to my room. I sat at my desk and pulled out a piece of notebook paper and a pen. In giant letters I scrawled MY DAD HAS CANCER across the page. A hot tear smudged one of the words. I let every tear come as I crumpled in my chair.
Suddenly, I heard these words, “You have a choice. You can turn from God, run away from Him and hate Him. Or you can run straight into His arms”. I picked up my head. The choice was clear. Quitting was not an option, my dad had taught me that. I would run into the arms of the only One who could save me now.

***

The months progressed and the cancer advanced. One of the last things my Father was able to do was see me qualify for the National Christian Forensics and Communications Association’s national tournament. It was my first year in speech and that meant I didn’t have a good chance of qualifying. I wasn’t even supposed to be any good my first year. But then again, lots of things happen that aren’t supposed to…
The national tournament was in Virginia that year and our whole family went. It was amazing. The excitement and energy of the tournament thrilled me. I managed to do well in all my events although I didn’t win any awards. I embraced every moment of that experience. And a little bit behind me my Father followed with his newsboy cap, oatmeal colored wool sweater and sturdy cane. My Mom held his arm and my sister recited my speech along with me, under her breath, word for word.
After the long weekend in Virginia we took a few weeks vacation to visit Dad’s parents in Florida. While in Florida Mom and Dad said that they were one their second honeymoon, I read through the Hobbit, a book that my Dad had given me, and Susan and I swam every day. It would have been a lovely vacation, except for the pain that now hung in the back of our eyes. One evening, around sunset, Dad whispered to Mom that he was going to miss us. I think that was the first time they truly wept together over the pain.

When we got back home it was July of 2004. Eight months after the diagnosis, and Dad now slept in a hospital bed in our living room. The doctors had put him on steroids to decrease the swelling of his tumor. However, the steroids also disfigured his body and made his eyes swell almost completely shut.
I had to sit with Dad as he slept one day. He would wake up from nightmares every few minutes and would need someone to hug him, hold his hand and assure him that he was ok. Oh how I relished those hugs. They were some of the last ones I received from him.
It was about this time that I said goodbye to my Father in my heart. He was not dead, but he was no longer himself. The cancer had taken over him, and the medication had taken over what was left. Because the tumor was inoperable, we had to cope with the fact that he would never get better. I proceeded to shut down inside. I no longer wished to feel. The only thing that mattered was survival.

I will forever remember the day my Dad died. It was August 18th, 2004. The night before had been even more sober than usual. We all went to bed empty, shells of ourselves. I woke at 7am to the sound of my Mom getting up. The floorboards squeaked as she went to check on my Father. I got out of bed, mechanically, and went into the living room. I sat on the couch; a chill ran through the house. We were alone.

***

Time moved slowly forward and I fell into depression. I scared myself with thoughts of suicide. Not because I really wanted to kill myself, but because I wanted to be with my Dad. I don’t remember much of that time. It was full of pain and sorrow.
I never could have imagined what life would be like without a Father. No one to hug you, no one to protect you, no one to tell you what a precious little girl you are. I felt helpless, like a glass doll that had been shattered. Hopeless.
But God is good, so good. He did not leave me there. I held on to one of His promises during those dark years. The promise was found in the book of Lamentations chapter three:
“I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. I well remember them and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, "The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him." The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him; it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord. It is good for a man to bear the yoke while he is young. Let him sit alone in silence, for the Lord has laid it on him. Let him bury his face in the dust— there may yet be hope. Let him offer his cheek to one who would strike him, and let him be filled with disgrace. For men are not cast off by the Lord forever. Though he brings grief, he will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love.”
There may yet be hope. I clung to those words. And ever so slowly, a light began to appear over a distant horizon. Hope was rising in my soul.

***

It’s been five years since the journey began. August 18th of this year marked the four-year anniversary of my Dad’s death. Oh how things have changed. Life has come back to my family, life enough to keep the darkness at bay. Our family, smaller than ever, tighter than ever, now knows the sacred bonds of life and death. It’s been an incredible journey so far, and I have learned how to depend on Jesus with nothing less than desperation.
I cannot tell you how the story ends. While this chapter has come to a close, the book has only begun. Each chapter brings with it new adventure, new sorrow. Each page engraved with exhilarating joys and disparaging heartaches. As I look out over the landscape of my soul I see the marks of this journey. I see ruts down muddy trails and freshly paved roads. And as I look ahead a joyous light guides me. Hope is rising. No, hope has risen. Hope has risen in my soul.