Taking the Mask Off

If I’ve learned anything over the last few weeks of wearing masks when going out in public, it’s that wearing a mask makes it hard to breathe.  The trapped air recirculating in and out gets thick and burdensome. The same is true for the invisible mask I wear on the days that I’m trying to hide the reality of what’s going on below the surface.  There comes a point when the air that has gotten trapped between my invisible mask and my unfortunate reality gets so heavy that ripping it off and gasping for a dose of fresh, life-giving oxygen is the only remedy. 

(Cue the proverbial mask selfie that everyone has had to take during quarantine.)

I think many of us frequently wear a mask, intentionally or unintentionally, to hide the reality of what’s underneath.

We mask up to present a façade.

A watered-down version of the true us.

A suffocating misrepresentation of our current existence. 

We’re all guilty. 

One of my favorite personalities in Scripture is someone who frequently took his mask off to show us his inner struggles.  He was raw and unfiltered as he questioned the reason for his suffering and the attacks that were coming at him (Psalm 64).  He cried out in desperation, revealing the inner state of his emotional health (Psalm 142).  He illuminated his humanity when speaking of his figurative drowning from his flood of tears (Psalm 69).

King David. My man. I’m so thankful that David (as well as other psalmists in Scripture) got real with us and showed us that it’s ok to be transparent – and let’s face it, sometimes transparency is not pretty.

Let me remove the mask and reveal the real me, with real struggles, real doubt, and real fear. 

While people applaud my bravery and faith since Camron’s initial cancer diagnosis five years ago, and now since his recent relapse, there are times when it seems impossible to be the good little Christian girl and take every thought captive, fix my eyes, and all of the other Christian-ese pieces of advice that we throw out during times of uncertainty. There are many days when the fear is louder than the faith.  While believing wholeheartedly in the sovereignty of an Almighty God, I find myself praying that His divine will doesn’t include an abbreviated life for my son, as I’ve seen up close and personally what that kind of grief looks like for a mother.   

I hate cancer. I hate the panic that the mere mention of the word evokes in people. I hate that my 17-year-old son has to spend what should be some of the best days of his life in the hospital.  I hate that the memories he’ll have of his upcoming senior year of high school are likely to be of hospital stays, isolation, and a treatment path that remains a mystery to us for a few more weeks.

I hate to think of what basketball season will be like for him.  Not because he’s the star player, but because he’s the biggest fan of every boy on the team, keeping meticulous track of every move they make, every shot they put up, and every opponent they need to be on the lookout for.  God gifted him with a mind for numbers, and basketball stats is his way of using his God-given talent in a way that honors God, encourages his team, and supports his school. (Being real: This was the hardest paragraph to write.)

Cancer 2.0 (I don’t like the word “relapse”) has stirred some hard questions in my spirit.  Questions like:

Why do we have to face this again, God?

Why did you let him get ever so close to achieving emotional healing from the sudden loss of his lifelong friend to now reminding him of his very own immortality?

Will I one day be able to identify and empathize with the countless women who have buried a child?

It feels good to breathe clean, crisp air from unmasked honesty.  I think David knew exactly what this release felt like because you frequently see his psalms teeter between confident faith and cries of desperation.  He weaves defeat and distress with exuberant, confident worship. That’s my life!  

I know the Truth.

Then I get overwhelmed from my current circumstances and bury the Truth.

Then I’m reminded that Truth brings freedom, and I rip the mask off and am able to breathe fresh, clean air again.

God alone is my source of Truth.  His Word reminds me of where I need to plant my mind when I'm not breathing so well.  I choose to remember His goodness, His incomparable faithfulness, and His unexplainable love towards His kids.  I feel fear, but when the mask is off, I choose to starve the fear and feed my faith. I must remove the mask to feed myself and breathe clearly again. So, when I do, I fill up on Truth. I ingest Truth like this:

“Rest in God alone, my soul,

For my hope comes from Him.” – Psalm 62:5

“But as for me, God’s presence is my good.

I have made the Lord God my refuge,

So I can tell about all You do.” – Psalm 73:28

“We wait for Yahweh;

He is our help and shield.

For our hearts rejoice in Him

Because we trust in His holy name.

May Your faithful love rest on us, Yahweh,

for we put our hope in you.” – Psalm 33: 20-22

Feast on Truth, fear is replaced with faith. 

Breathe in Truth, desperation morphs into worship. 

So join me in ripping your mask off. Trust me, it will feel good to breathe again.

Thank you for your ongoing prayers for Camron.  We are trusting our precious boy to our Sovereign God.