Don' be that guy!

Remember the Mighty Casey? In Ernest Lawrence Thayer's famous poem "Casey at the Bat," he was the pride of the Mudville baseball team. We join the story in the 9th inning: 

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

The crowd was in despair. Down two in the bottom of the ninth with two outs, they were beginning to leave the stadium. The next two batters were the bottom of the order and offered little hope, but Flynn hit a single, and Blake a double. Suddenly, there was hope for the Mudville nine, for the top of the order, none other than the mighty Casey, was coming to bat with two men in scoring position. Even a base hit would keep the game alive, and a home run, well that would end it in a glorious, ecstatic victory. 

Now Casey, apparently, had embraced the hype about his might. He had every confidence of putting the game on ice. The fans were cheering. The momentum of the game had taken a new direction. Could there be any doubt of the outcome now? As Casey stepped to the plate:

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

So great was Casey's pride and confidence that he barely watched as the pitcher went to work:

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

The crowd cursed the umpire, but Casey bade them not worry:

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

Now it was two on, two down, two out, two strikes in the bottom of the ninth. The fans cheered. Casey bore his gaze down on the pitcher. The ball came flying at the plate: 

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

Now, what in the world does all of that have to do with red cells and white cells and platelets? 

I have just returned from Club Sunnyside, having completed three of my four rounds of consolidation chemotherapy. God has blessed this journey to date. I have not had the dire side effects (so far) of which I was warned at the beginning. I have felt as if I'm skating through this process. It is long. It is not pleasant, but it could be much worse. 

My medical team gave us very encouraging words of my progress during this visit. Everything is going along according to the textbook. One of the nurses, to whom the rest of the nursing staff refers as "Mom," said she would miss me when I go home. When I told her I would be back next month, she said, "I know. I mean when you go home for good. I know you won't be back then. You are our success story."

Now, Michelle got to be known as Mom, because she has been at this a long time. Her wisdom and experience are respected by all the medical staff, and the other nurses try to emulate her manner of caring for patients.  She has seen patients come and go, and I believe she has insight into which of them will prosper and which ones will not. Her words were very encouraging to me. "You are our success story." 

Is that a guarantee? No. Are the doctors' words about my progress gospel? No. 

Now, as I face the coming nadir of my blood counts, energy and immunity following round three, and with the end of my planned treatment in sight, I feel like we are approaching the ninth inning. I am scheduled to return for that inning on November 3, 2021. 

By all current reports, I don't appear to be down by two runs, but this is cancer, so who knows. No matter what the score is, in November I will step up to the plate with the game on the line. God forbid that, at this point, I become cavalier like the mighty Casey. This game is more important than even a baseball game in Mudville. God grant me the humility to know that it is not I, nor the medical team, nor Mom, nor the mighty Casey who is in charge here. 

Lord, the game is in your hands. As much as the fans are cheering; as bouyed as I am by the progress so far; let me never forget that the game is not over just because I am feeling confident about the outcome. Let me not be a "mighty" Casey, overconfident and haughty. Let me remember your words, O Lord: 

²⁴ “Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. ²⁵ And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. ²⁶ And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. ²⁷ And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it.” (Matthew 7:24-27)

Let me build my house on You, my Rock. You have brought me this far. I can imagine a purpose in that fact, but the truth is that only You know how the game will end. So let me be on my best game, O Lord. Let me not be a mighty Casey, smug and haughty. Keep my heart in the game and my eye on the ball, the Rock. I pray for a home run, but when it comes, I know it will be from  you and not from me. Great is Your faithfulness. 

[Two old ladies went to the baseball park to enjoy a game. In a brown paper bag, they took a bottle of whiskey with them, so they could enjoy a little nip from time to time. Now the whiskey is gone, so what is the status of the game?  It's the bottom of the fifth and the bags are loaded, of course!]