I go in for another chemotherapy treatment today. Less than four hours from now. Every time I go in, I have new questions—or old questions I forgot to ask. Before I settled in to write this post, I typed eleven questions to ask; dozens more, I suspect, rattle around in my subsconscious. They hide there, wanting answers but failing to alert my conscious mind that they worry me and deserve some attention. I will remember them again late at night or over the weekend. That is the way it works for me. The questions for which I am especially anxious for answers cannot be answered—not yet. But some of the eleven questions on my typed list attempt to get at clues to those that are not yet ready for responses. I am sure oncologists and oncology nurses recognize those efforts to get them to forecast the future; they must be quite adept at replying without answering.
+++
On Saturday morning, a few hours of church time will be devoted to soliciting input for the next iteration of the church’s long range plan. Were I chairing the effort again, I would start fresh. I would utterly abandon the existing strategic plan—a tactical plan, actually—in an effort to be free of the constraints the “old” plan might place on thinking about the future. But I am not in charge. And my approach might well be rejected in its entirety by the congregation. So it’s best for me to simply observe and throw in an occasional idea or observation—assuming I feel well enough to participate in the gathering. It’s hard to know whether this morning’s chemo will intrude on my ability to think by Saturday morning. My thoughts about the future of the church have changed in the nearly five years since I chaired the endeavor. I suspect others’ thoughts may have similarly adjusted to subsequent circumstances. I hope I feel well enough to participate; or, at least, to observe. It is apparent to me that the primary facilitator of the Saturday meeting is extremely well-prepared. Unlike my approach, the facilitator is not apt to let personal perspectives color the way the discussions evolve. The ultimate outcome, therefore, is more likely to be a congregational plan than an individual plan imposed on the congregation. That, of course, is best. Unless one happens to have the personality of Joel Osteen; hmm, I thought I had a better handle on controlling the control-freak hiding just beneath the surface of my brain.
+++
My cursory read of yesterday’s post revealed an embarrassing number of typos. If I were more energetic and cared more, I would have corrected them this morning. But the energy just isn’t there. And I have come to realize mistakes in my posts do not matter. It would be different, of course, if my blog had a large readership, but it does not. One or two dozen people—on a day of especially robust viewing—might read a post. While those people are important to me, I convince myself they will not judge me too harshly for my un-corrected typos and the sloth my failure to correct them reveals. There was a time I would write—post—correct. I should have approached it with a write—correct—post attitude. But, now, I am just deeply lazy. And I can tolerate being judged, if that’s what were to happen after my mistake-laden posts were published. I should be embarrassed. And I suppose I am. Just not sufficiently embarrassed to do anything about it.\
+++
If I were to go back to bed right now, I would fall instantly asleep. That sounds sound incredibly inviting…but, no.
I noticed the typos, but I’m one of those who just reads without worrying about such things. I make odd typos pretty often. Sometimes I catch them before I post, but sometimes not until later, and sometimes not at all. It’s the internet — not a book that needs to be proofread at least 2 or 3 times before it goes to the publisher. 🙂
Hope all goes well with the chemo. Try to get some answers from your oncologist and the nurses. However, I know that it’s often difficult to get any kind of answer when it comes to the future. In truth, no one really knows what will happen in a week, a month, a year.