“Will my cancer ever go away, Dad?”

The question caught me off guard, but this was Carson’s way. As we traveled to St. Jude each week by plane, our time together was surprisingly joyful. What father would not appreciate 36 uninterrupted hours with his firstborn every week for nearly three years? We laughed, played games, and enjoyed one another’s company. Interspersed in our routine, however, were insightful questions like these that seemingly came from nowhere.

“Why did God give me cancer, Dad?”

“Does God really love me, Dad?”

“What purpose does God have for me, Dad?”

These were just a few of the more thoughtful discussions we had along the way. But not knowing Carson’s future was the most difficult part of the journey. After his initial diagnosis of leukemia in 2011, Carson was elevated from low to standard risk due to his unusually high white blood count. The worst thoughts imaginable ran amok during those early days of treatment. Was Carson going to die? Could he live a normal life even if he survived? What side effects would his invasive chemotherapy cause? 

We waited nervously to find out if cancer cells were in his spinal fluid. We paced the floor during the regular spinal taps called for by his treatment plan. We went home disappointed when Carson’s first bone marrow test revealed that his chemotherapy, though working, had not yet eradicated his cancer entirely. All the while, we wondered if we would ever defeat the uninvited guest that was wreaking havoc on our lives. 

The highs and lows along the way were too numerous to count. One drug Carson received was so powerful it had to be immediately flushed from his kidneys lest it cause permanent damage. We waited all night in the ERs of numerous cities every time he spiked a fever, fearing bacterial septicity. We grieved the loss of dear friends whose earthly battles with pediatric cancer ended with the least desirable outcomes, even as we wondered if the same fate awaited us.

Waiting.

Not knowing.

Fearing the worst.

So, one day at a time, we woke up and gave our son to the Lord. Certainly, we were more attuned to it during those days, but it occurs to me that much of our existence is very much the same. We do not know what the future holds (James 4:14a). Life is far too brief and fragile (James 4:14b). Our best bet is to give every day that we have to the Lord and trust Him with whatever comes our way (James 4:15). 

We need the same outlook to endure the uncertainties of the present. I do not know what the future holds, but there is much that causes me concern. When will the COVID-19 pandemic end? When will our economy stabilize? When will the political gridlock cease? When will the racial tensions subside? Or, to restate Carson’s question from all those years ago, “Will our problems ever go away?”

I wish I knew. The circumstances have changed, but some days I still find myself waiting, not knowing, and fearing the worst. So, what are we to do? Give every day to the Lord. Remember, that He is still on His throne and is in no way surprised by the world’s dilemmas. Do not allow the blindness of life to undermine your hope in the Lord’s goodness and strength. Live every day like it might be your last. And do it all for the Lord’s glory, never boasting in your own strength (James 4:16).

For years I’ve made at least one phone call whenever I don’t know what to do. Sometimes, other calls will follow. But without hesitation, the first call I make is to my mentor and friend, Hershael York. The day we learned Carson had leukemia was terrible in every way. Though our emotions brought us low with despair, there was little time to linger in our valley. In addition to the anxieties we carried, we had to pack a bag, travel to another state, and begin a journey that would span nearly three years. I knew my young family would look to me for strength, yet I had none. That’s when I made the call. Parts of that conversation will always remain private, but I’ve asked my friend to share his perspective about our conversation on that dark day.

Guest Contributor: Hershael York

I thought it odd that he would call early on a Sunday afternoon, so soon after church. Preachers don’t call then. They recuperate. A preacher must be “on” from the moment he arrives at the church until he leaves. His attentions are heightened, his thoughts focused, his emotions intense. After greeting, listening, leading, and preaching he’s left feeling like Jesus when an anonymous woman touched the hem of his garment: virtue has gone out of him. 

But that was precisely the moment on July 10, 2011, the caller id on my cell phone informed me Adam Dooley was calling. I thought he might be calling because of our time together the previous Thursday evening. I don’t think I had laughed so much and so hard for a long time, and I’m almost certain that the last time I had laughed like that had also been with Adam. Because we lived in different parts of the country, we didn’t get to be together much, but every time we did our time was characterized by a lot of laughs, usually at Adam’s expense.

He had been my student at The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. I can remember the moment I noticed him in my preaching class. He soon distinguished himself as a guy who was very serious about preaching but, thankfully, not too serious about himself. I liked that combination, and he began stopping by my office, peppering me with questions about pastoral ministry and sermon preparation. When he decided to do a PhD in preaching, he asked me to be his supervisor and to oversee his dissertation. 

The more we were together, the more he became a son in the ministry to me. Our relationship grew rich and deep. He would have me preach for him in every church he pastored, seeking advice about how to grow and lead them. He wouldn’t get serious about Heather, the woman who would become his wife until Tanya and I got to know her and gave him our blessing—which we did the very first night we met her. When I judged that he was dragging his feet at asking her to marry him, one day when he was in my office, I picked up the phone and called her myself and asked her if she would say yes if he proposed. When she giggled and answered affirmatively, I handed him the phone. Within a few months, I did their premarital counseling and then performed the ceremony, happily pronouncing them husband and wife.

When Adam went with me on a mission trip to Brazil, a country I know well and whose language I speak because of my past as a missionary kid, I taught him some Portuguese phrases. I just didn’t teach him correct Portuguese. Every time Adam thought he was saying “thank you” to someone, he was instead innocently making a statement of (how shall I put this?) gastrointestinal confession. It took him three days to figure out that Brazilians weren’t merely laughing at his funny Gringo accent.

Amid all the practical jokes I played on him, Adam had grown into a first-rate preacher and scholar. His dissertation was innovative and brilliant. He was in demand as a conference speaker and had been called to pastor a large, historic church. I was proud of how he had grown and I would sometimes invite him to teach a summer modular class in preaching or pastoral ministry at Southern Seminary, his beloved alma mater. 

That’s what brought him back to Kentucky that week, allowing Tanya and me to take him out to dinner on Thursday night. Over a casual meal shared between dear friends whose lives had been so happily intertwined by a gracious providence, we laughed so hard that I kept losing my breath and wiping tears from my eyes. Folks around us must have been irritated to see three adults acting like kids getting tickled in church and unable to stop laughing. 

Three days later, my phone rang soon after church and I had no idea that it meant I would bear witness to one of the most challenging, gut-wrenching, grace-filled journeys I have ever seen anyone walk. Adam told me of what had just transpired that morning, of Carson’s dire diagnosis, of their imminent departure to Memphis and St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital. He and I both wept bitter tears as we prayed together about a dreadfully uncertain future. 

A professor-mentor feels a special joy at seeing someone he has trained do well, and Adam has been a source of that pleasure in many ways. While I am proud of his personal accomplishments as a preacher, pastor, and author, none of those delight me like watching him walk the long, hard road of suffering. I never saw him waver in his unshakeable commitment to Christ and to the bedrock belief that God is completely in control, even when nothing makes sense and life hurts. His stalwart shepherding of his family during those days, even when they were under attacks I can only interpret as satanic, challenged, and inspired me. 

During those years, Adam and Heather set a watch over Carson like Rizpah on the rock of Gibeah, beating back the forces of cancer and death through their vigilant prayers and unyielding care of their precious son. I saw them grow in faith and intimacy with a God who knows what it is to watch a Son suffer. I saw the Lord knit their hearts to His and to one another with a strength that could not have come through any other way. 

In time the laughter came back. These days the tears we wipe from our eyes are once again because we are laughing so hard. I love those tears. But they are richer and more precious because we shed the other kind together, too.

Do you find these lessons helpful? Want to read more insights from Adam Dooley? Preorder your copy of Hope When Life Unravels today by clicking here.

Mile 18 was by far the most difficult.

I won’t say the first 13.1 miles were easy, but temperatures were cooler and the adrenaline of running in my first St. Jude Marathon was still pumping. When we broke from the large group that ended their race at a half-marathon finish line, my pride swelled, and the motivation continued to push me along. The atmosphere was fun. Bands played along the path and crowds of people cheered us on as we trekked across Nashville. 

At mile 18, however, I hit the proverbial wall. The novelty of outdistancing everyone else was now gone, and my legs just weren’t working. With eight miles remaining, I wondered if I could even finish. By this time, it was 86 degrees. My clothes were soaking wet; my feet were sore; and my entire body ached. But then, the very moment it seemed as if I could not continue, I spotted my son’s bald head glistening in the sunlight. He did not feel like being out on such a hot day, but he was there nonetheless, holding a sign of support to encourage me. 

With a lump in my throat, I pressed forward. The discomfort of a five-hour race now seemed insignificant compared to my son’s three-year battle with cancer. Inspired by his perseverance, I resolved that quitting was not an option. Though hundreds finished before me, Carson was waiting at the finish line with a personal trophy he and his mother made just for me. It was an incredible moment that I will never forget. 

If you haven’t already figured it out, I am no marathon runner. I’m just a dad who loves his son. Breaking records was never my goal. Instead, we set out to raise as much money as we could for the wonderful place that we had come to call “Carson’s hospital.” On a personal level, I wanted to do something difficult simply to show solidarity with my son. If he could endure so much hardship without complaint, surely I could run a marathon to bring awareness to his fight. Carson’s endurance was, and remains, an example that I desire to emulate. 

I know that fathers are supposed to shape their sons into godly young men, but most days I feel like my firstborn has done more to mold me than I have done to mold him. Though he is unaware, one verse in particular always reminds me of Carson when I read it. Writing to his protégé in the ministry, Paul says, “Let no one look down on your youthfulness, but rather in speech, conduct, love, faith and purity, show yourself an example of those who believe (1 Tim. 4:12).” Thrust into a hardship he did not ask for at such a tender age, my son typified the pure, child-like faith God expects from all of us. I remain grateful for his testimony, and I am still learning from it today.

Did you know that your life has the same potential to impact the people around you? Granted, every struggle is different, but the influence we wield is determined in large part by how we respond to trials. We should never underestimate the significant impact our lives have on fellow believers, for good or bad. The Bible is full of evidence that our lives shape others in ways that we cannot always foresee.

For example, God warned Old Testament Israel about the contagious momentum of fear as it spreads among His people. In fact, the Lord insisted that every fainthearted soldier remain off the battlefield lest “his brothers’ hearts melt like his heart” (Deut. 20:8).  Likewise, the Scripture warns that worldly talk spreads like gangrene and that bad doctrine will lead some astray (2 Tim. 2:16-18). How many reckless examples could be avoided if we simply thought more about the ripple effect of our actions?

On the positive side, the generosity of the Macedonian churches in the midst of their poverty motivates us, like the Corinthian believers, to give sacrificially to the Lord’s work (2 Cor. 8:1). Paul’s faithfulness to the Lord while in prison inspires Christians today to be bold in their faith just as it did the Philippians so long ago (Phil. 1:14). The humility of Jesus while enduring the suffering caused by His cross compels us to look out for others more than ourselves (Phil. 2:3-8). And the example left by those in the great cloud of witnesses compels us to fix our eyes on Jesus as we lay aside sinful encumbrances in order to live by faith (Heb. 12:1-2).

Our lives make a difference, whether we want them to or not. Are you in the midst of a trial? Don’t waste it. Are you ready to throw your hands up and quit? Someone is watching. Is it difficult for you to trust God right now? Someone will follow in your footsteps. 

Do you find these lessons helpful? Want to read more insights from Adam Dooley? Preorder your copy of Hope When Life Unravels today by clicking here.

It was not my best sermon.

After being away from my congregation for six weeks, the induction phase of Carson’s chemotherapy ended, and we returned home from the Memphis Ronald McDonald House. Though he was now in remission, 128 consecutive weeks of treatment remained in order to prevent him from relapsing. We were tired, emotionally spent, and fearful of what lay ahead of us. 

With my pastoral duties resuming, I decided to preach through the book of Job. What I did not anticipate, however, was the uncontrollable emotion I felt when I opened my Bible and began to speak. As an active participant in the story, the passage I read was neither theoretical nor flat. Each verse struck a different emotive cord as I shared about the inevitability of trials in a fallen world. And with every insight I explained, it seemed as though God was speaking directly to me through His Word.

That’s when the tears began to flow. At first, I was embarrassed. The vulnerability of the message left me exposed like never before, and frankly, I did not like it. The more I tried to pull it together the less composure it seemed I had. Yet, as God carried me through the message, His strength was perfected through my weakness in an obvious way. I realized, like never before, that God usually breaks us before He uses us. 

Then, in a moment of spiritual clarity, I felt joy. Joy because the Holy Spirit was present and active. Joy because others were benefiting from my hardship. Joy because of the manifest power of God’s Word. And joy because, like never before, I needed the realities that I dared to proclaim. Don’t get me wrong, I never really doubted any of the doctrines in Scripture, but my son’s trial forced me to lean on the Lord’s promises like never before. When we move from merely explaining Scripture for the benefit of others to experiencing the same truth for ourselves, life change occurs. 

Such is the beauty of brokenness. 

Earthly pain is often God’s chosen method to help live out the eternal truths we claim to believe (James 1:2-4). He sometimes uses unexpected affliction to add the depth of experience to the width of our knowledge (Psalm 147:3). Tears, as unwelcome as they might be, are a powerful instrument to help us glory more in our Savior than ourselves (Psalm 6:8). The destination of obedience is often at the end of affliction’s road (Psalm 119:67).

So, I no longer run from the tears. 

Neither should you. Today’s heartache may become a future pillow with which you can comfort others who are hurting (2 Cor. 1:3-4).  Every trial is a potential platform for your declaring the gospel and demonstrating genuine faith (Phil. 1:12-14). Better still is the hope that our burdens are often doorways that lead to deeper intimacy with Christ as our faith is proven and stretched (1 Peter 1:6-9). No matter how God chooses to enter your suffering and regardless of how many tears you shed, remember that He promises to wipe each one of them away (Rev. 21:4). 

Maybe that sermon wasn’t so bad after all.  

Do you find these lessons helpful? Want to read more insights from Adam Dooley? Preorder your copy of Hope When Life Unravels today by clicking here.