If God is bigger than death, then God is bigger than cancer

Photo courtesy of Lutheran Church of Hope

By Elyse Webb 

It was mid-morning, and I was riding in the passenger seat of my dad’s red pickup truck. The sun was shining, old blues tunes were playing, and the necessary “road trip snack bag” was resting between my dad and me. 

We merged onto I-80 as I placed my feet on the dashboard sporting my brand-new Drake University sweatshirt. 

It was August 6th, 2010, and I was mentally prepared for six long hours in a car with my father. Right before I took my first of many naps, he asked me to call and let my mom know we were on the road, heading back to Chicago after my first official college visit. 

I was not on the phone for more than a minute when I knew something was wrong. Long somber sighs filled the space as my mom spoke the words. 

“Grandma has cancer. Stage 4. The worst it can be.'' 

I remember hearing those words as I stared blankly ahead as white lines on the highway passed. As she continued to talk, tears started to involuntarily roll down my cheeks, my voice shook, and my breathing quickened.  

I started sobbing uncontrollably. 

Furious at cancer

This was the first time anyone in my family received this type of news. It is seared into my memory as also being the first time I saw my father cry, as we sat in silence on the side of the highway together. 

Within the next two years, five other cancer diagnoses would come with vengeance into my life. In that moment, cancer became the enemy; the enemy that brought the absolute worst thing there was in this world, which was death. 

At 17 years old, I was filled with fury; anger at a distant God who I grew up believing. But now, how could I, after he bestowed this evil thing upon my family?

During the last few months of high school, I became increasingly aware of other families struggling with cancer diagnosis. When my creative writing teacher asked us to produce a short documentary, I proclaimed: “I am going to create one all about cancer.” 

In comparison, my classmates chose to create lighthearted videos such as “A Day in the life of…” or “Everything you need to know about cheese.” Instead, I marched with a mini camcorder in hand to our town’s local Cancer Support Center. 

That day, I interviewed parents, family members, and those with cancer. I asked every person how they remained happy, even with after this diagnosis. 

Searching for answers

I ended my day interviewing an art therapist who worked with individuals and families affected by cancer. As she spoke, I searched for a common thread that validated how awful and angry I was feeling. 

All I could find? “Love more.”

It’s the idea that if you love more -- more people, your current situation, the everyday mundane – then everything would be okay. But to me, it wasn’t the answer.

People around me kept dying, and no one was telling me it was okay to feel anger. They told me to be positive and have faith, but I thought that was a false hope.  

I did not know what to grasp onto. I did not know what books to read. I did not know how to fix the brokenness. I didn't even know what to say when people asked me how I was feeling. 

Instead of confronting it, I pushed my anger away and hid it.

Shocking news

One night after a grueling day at work, I sat at my kitchen island to finish dinner. My roommate and I chatted about our day, as she was in and out of her room, when I received a phone call from my dad. At that moment, nothing out of the ordinary.  

If anything, I was glad my dad called so I could tell him about my car’s oil light. When I finally took a breath, I asked “So how are you and mom?”

My father took a deep breath and his voice began to shake. “I am sorry to have to tell you this over the phone, but grandma died today.” 

The anger resurfaced. 

I wanted to travel back in time to before my father told me. But I knew I couldn’t. After crying together once again, I collected myself and went to my room to process my next steps: When to tell my boss, what to pack in a bag and plan my travel back home. 

But first, I grabbed my Bible.

Turning to the Bible

It was a brown Bible that I had purchased five years earlier, which was now filled with pencil markings, random notes and prayers. I flipped through the pages hoping to grasp onto something bigger than me -- something bigger than anger.

Days later, I traveled home with that same Bible in hand. 

I added one of my grandma’s handwritten letters to me, a photograph with her from my childhood, and tabbed the first reading I was to read at her funeral. 

There was not a single dry eye that day in the church as I stood preaching God’s word about her and her legacy as a noble wife, mother, and grandmother. 

Embracing God’s peace

Coming back to West Des Moines, after weeks of traveling to and from Chicago, I continued my routine of attending my normal church service at 9:15. I sat in my usual spot with my usual church crew. 

That morning, our worship leader opened the service with a song I never heard before. As most do, I pretended to know the words, swayed to the music, but was completely blindsided. 

Yet again, a flood of emotion poured out of me.  It was this overwhelming feeling as I sang “Take me wider than the atmosphere, where East and West just disappear” where I began to remember my grandma. 

I began to imagine where she was now. I began to feel like I was the only person in the church, background noise faded, and I zeroed in on the moment. I felt this strong presence of her, but also God. 

The moment took me away from the chaos around me and centered me in the oddest of ways. I was feeling a million different things: sadness, wonder, loneliness, tragedy and awe. 

But not one ounce of anger. Not one. 

An emotion I carried with me for eight years was gone. I thought if God was bigger than death, then God was bigger than cancer.

This time, I was filled with peace.

On May 2nd, 2018, my grandma died. 

Today, I have no doubt that I will see her again in heaven, and I can only imagine what she will say to me.