Hi, Steemit!

Hi, Steemit!

I'm Rob Coscia, a writer, speaker, and cancer beater. My wife Angi and I graduated together from North Central University, and we’ve ministered to people for over 25 years, mostly in Pennsylvania, but also around the globe. We have two incredible children, and now live in Northern California. I've written for a couple of compilation books, and I've written a devotional based on my fight with cancer, called "Forty Doors: Overcoming Fear, Hopelessness, and a Big Ugly Tumor With Joy." I have a consistent presence on Facebook, and I write a blog called "Monday Jesus," that I'm thinking of reformatting for this platform. I love photography, so I'm looking forward to sharing some pictures, as well letting you in on the interesting conversations I have with our two dogs and cat. Those are pretty much the highlights. I’m available for speaking engagements periodically, and for coffee anytime . . .

I'm excited about the innovation and opportunities with Steemit, and it's an honor to be part of such an amazing growing community. I'm just learning, but so far it seems like Steemit is redefining what a marketplace of ideas can look like. I hope to add to the positive ideas I've seen so far. I thought perhaps as an introduction, I'd share the first chapter of my book. I'm nearly done with the second book, a devotional focused on our identity in God. I'm looking forward to letting you in on a few of those chapters soon.

When I began chemo, I had great oncologists, but none of course could guarantee the outcome. I had been treated for costochondritis for months. The doctor never thought I had anything a good antibiotic couldn't fix. One morning I woke in agony. The pain was like being stabbed in the chest with a spear. It doubled me over, stealing my breath and seizing my back. I went to see my friend, Dr. Phil (not the TV one—that would have been interesting: "So how's that cough drop workin’ for you, partner?"). This Dr. Phil was my chiropractor. He said, "Rob, I'm not touching you. Something else is going on here. I'm sending you for an MRI right now."

The MRI showed a fist-sized mass, and the subsequent biopsy revealed it to be mediastinal B-cell non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. It cracked my sternum, trapped fluid around my heart, and was a real pain in the chest. It was large and growing fast, so the treatment for it was pretty radical. Though not as radical as some of the many emails and messages I got telling me how to cure cancer. My favorite was drinking garlic and lemon juice every day, which was guaranteed to kill any tumor. While I have a great appreciation for natural prevention and cures, I was pretty sure cancer scampi wasn't going to do it. Since an outright miracle hadn’t materialized, I prepared for chemotherapy. It was called DA EPOCH-R, the "DA" standing for "dose adjusted." I'm glad I didn't know at the time that “dose adjusted” is a medical term meaning "keep giving him more until just before it kills him."

I've read the "do not worry" verses from Matthew and Luke so many times. I've preached them so many times. But I discovered I didn't believe them. Not really. Did I trust Him so much I wouldn't give in to worry? Did I know His presence so powerfully that anxiety would find no place to live in me? For most of my life, I'd have to say no. We had peace over the way to proceed, but as every day brought new challenges, my Sunday morning faith faltered. I saw how much I’d been relying on my own strength to deal with my circumstances, and how just how inadequate that was.

A few days before I was to begin chemo, I woke up overwhelmed. Angi and the kids were at work, and I was alone. The information I’d been forced to learn, and all I didn’t yet know, was just too much to process. A million thoughts entered and exited my head, each taking bits of strength and peace with them.

“God, I can’t do this.”

“No, you can’t. But I can.” His words weren’t audible to my ears, but my heart felt like it had been wired for sound. “I am here, and I will not leave you.”

The throbbing in my head slowed. I took a deep breath. And another. I knew the “I will never leave or forsake you” verse. I’d preached it. But I’d never experienced it as such a present reality. As His peace washed over my mind, with it came an image of a large room.

I’d been here before. In dreams and in prayer, this had been a setting the Lord had used to help me focus on Him as He spoke to me. Its walls were stones of deep colors, varying in shape and opacity. They rose to high–vaulted ceilings, which glowed with the yellow–white light of a bright summer morning. Against the wall to my left, steps climbed to a railed walkway encircling the room, giving access to dozens of doors above me, each a different shade of wood. In the middle of the room was a large round sofa. There Jesus sat.

I’ve talked to God most of my life. Like many, I primarily hear Him in my heart, or in His word. But He also shows me pictures, and gives me dreams. I knew I was receiving this vision in my head through faith, but it was as real as the pillow I was gripping. Someone might dismiss it as imagination and nonsense, but the peace, hope, love, and joy that came with it certainly weren’t.

In His presence, I chided myself. I realized I’d been avoiding this place. Avoiding Him. I prayed, of course. But since I’d been diagnosed it had been more like begging a stranger than being with my Father. I was afraid of what He might say, afraid the cancer was a result of my failure.

I would never say that of someone else’s struggle. Never think it. God doesn’t give people cancer. He doesn’t curse to teach lessons. He doesn’t curse, period. But I’d become so self–piteous, despondent, and bitter over the last year, I knew I’d compromised my immune system. I felt like I’d brought this on myself, and that I deserved it for dying before I finished what God had given me to do.

I looked to Him. He had moved from the couch where we would normally talk, and was walking up the stairs. He opened the first door, and beckoned me up. I climbed with a mix of excitement and uncertainty, which heightened when I got to the top and to find He’d already gone through. The hallway the door opened to was dark, and the air hot and acrid. I hesitated, and took a step back.

Staring into the dark, and working up the courage to go through, I noticed a brass plaque outside the door:

JOY

That caught me with such surprise, I doubted the entire experience. But then He spoke again, with such strength it made my heart pound: “See.”

I looked at the other doors. Every one of them had “JOY” written outside them. I understood. I’ve never been good at living in joy. I love seeing it others, but always felt like I either didn’t deserve it, or had never done enough to earn it. Jesus wanted to change that.

I looked at the darkness in the first door. This wasn’t about the cancer. Not directly, anyway. This was about trusting Him with my heart, my head, my family, my everything. This was His answer to my cry for help. This was how He wanted to heal me.

For most of my life, I believed I had to earn joy. This lie messed up my mind, my relationships, and my body, to the point of cancer.

But God wasn't done with me.

When chemo and broken pride made me too weak to perform for joy—or acceptance, grace, peace, healing, or love—God poured them into me, and has opened doors every day for me to learn to live in them.
He's not done with you, either. I’m praying for doors for you that all lead to a joy in Jesus that heals, encourages, and blesses your life beyond words.

Open the door.

In His Joy,
Rob