Let the Balm of Kindness Last

On Sept. 4, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. One week later, terrorists attacked our nation. The two will forever lie parallel in my mind--my cancer, a reflection in my body of the invasion of our national body.

Although killers such as heart disease and automobile accidents take a larger toll than cancer and terrorism, it is the latter that strike greater fear into our hearts. Like thieves in the night, they come with no warning, destroy and leave us defiled by an enemy of which we were only dimly aware.

Because we have few defenses against them, our reactions often amount to putting our heads in the sand. We hear that if we know seven women, we know one with breast cancer. But who seriously expects to be the one? We’ve relied on terrorism remaining on the other guy’s soil--Northern Ireland, the Middle East, Africa--despite numerous wake-up calls to the contrary.

As I reeled from simultaneously coming face to face with my personal and our national worst-case scenarios, like Jeremiah of old I looked for peace but found no good. I sought healing but faced only terror. It seemed that I was at the mercy of rogue cells, and we were all at the mercy of a world gone so berserk that no means existed for salving our wounded souls. Over and again I asked the anguished question, “Is there no balm in Gilead?”

I soon came to realize there is a balm. My friends and family blanketed me in a cocoon of support, just as the national family quilted a comforter of care for its victims. Those with whom I had rankled over politics and family members with whom I’ve not seen eye to eye were among the first to extend their love; and our national leaders joined bipartisan hands to sing “God Bless America.” I sat amazed at the grace with which Hollywood came together in an egoless effort to heal our country’s wounds.

I make no apology that I needed myriad prayers that were lifted on my behalf by those from every spiritual tradition from Anglican to Zen. The faith these folks had that a higher power would guide my doctor’s hand sustained me as I went into surgery. Afterward, I glowed warm as the larger community came together at Yankee Stadium to heal, support and offer gratitude to the heroes among New York’s emergency and service workers.

Needless to say, love and prayer cannot undo that what has caused us grief. The intractable facts are that I was stricken by cancer, and terrorists struck America. Yet, retracting our wounds is never the issue when humankind cries out for help. The balm we weep for is the strength to go forward in spite of that which has brought us to our knees. Without hope for the future, we fear it too greatly.

My hope is that in the days to come, we will not forget the balm that was bestowed during these dark hours and that we choose to pass on its legacy by extending ourselves to others.