Three-Word Sentences

Cancer, Love, and I Don't Know

“Come, follow me.”

~ Matthew 4:19 ~

Three-word sentences can be hard to say. Well. Some of them.

They unfold like stepping stones alluring the onlooker across the pond. Yet after one-two-three, terror strikes. Enough steps to get to the middle. Not to cross.

Do I turn back? Search for stones? Admit defeat? Weep? Or am I just stranded alone unsure where to turn?

“You have cancer.”

My mom’s heard that three-word sentence three times. Each time just as terrifying. Each time uncontrollable tears. Prayers. Sleepless nights. Pain. Always chemo. Two times radiation. One time a deeply invasive surgery.

This last time my mom stumbled at the start, unwilling to run the pink ribbon race. And she wept. “I’m fine,” she lied. “I’m just tired.”

Tired of the fight. Tired of the process. Tired of chasing the pockets of estrogen that keep evolving into three-word sentences.

“It has metastasized.”

That one was new. Beyond jarring. Over the phone, the nurse broke protocol callously categorizing it as “stage four.” Disbelief shook us. Anger overwhelmed us. Three-sentence words defined us: “I hate this.” Typically followed by, “I love you.”

Even outside the context of cancer, “I love you” can be difficult to say. “I don’t know” or “I was wrong” even more difficult still. Yet each three-word sentence contains a divinity. Portions of God: Forgiveness. Mystery. And Sacrifice.

It may be the measure of a saint to live a life in the presence of all three. Not cowering from “I was wrong” or worried about “I don’t know” or threatened by “I love you.” Freely forgiving every wrong, believing that reconciliation is immeasurably more valuable than the false promises of grudges or vengeance. Easily admitting where knowledge ends, descending into the mystery of an infinite God and making a home. Actively offering all to the other, even their enemy, trusting that life without love is closer to death or something more sinister.

I remember the first time I said “I love you” to my wife. I added some words because just three seemed too vulnerable. We were sitting on an old speckled white couch in the living room of my childhood home. It was late. I stammered. Stuttered. She shifted through shades of red altering between anticipation and uncertainty. Finally, my cowardice couldn’t contain the words any longer, “I think,” I stuttered, “I think, I may,” I stammered, “I think I might be falling in love with you.” She didn’t hesitate at all, “I love you too.”

But then again, maybe four-word sentences are just easier.

If there’s one flaw in the Wood family, it’s too much confidence. Not arrogance, at least most of the time. But confidence. An overabundance of confidence. My kids get it from me, so please don’t think I’m criticizing or judging too harshly. This is more of a self-reflection than a tale appropriately labelled tattling.

And no, I’m not wishing the opposite—such poor self-worth that tolerates a cheating boyfriend or a demeaning boss at Crumble Cookie. I’m reflecting on the blessing and betrayal of confidence. And exceedingly high levels of it.

For example, when my daughter was around seven or eight years old, her babysitter innocently asked, “If you could be anyone in the world, who would it be?”

Paige looked at her confused and a bit sassy. With one hand on her hip and her head coiled to strike, she said, “Me. I would be me. Why would I want to be anyone else?”

Confidence. Not arrogance. Even at a young age.

But in my own life, I’ve found my confidence gets in the way as much as it reminds me of my God-given value. I’ve worked hard, probably harder than others, to confidently approach the three words I often need but rarely harness: “I was wrong.”

With my wife. My kids. My enemies. God.

Each time my confidence gives way, this three-word sentence reminds me of grace, even if the other withholds. Mercy, even if the other relishes my contrition. Peace, even if the other catalogs the moment to remind me at a later date.

Fortunately, confidence hasn’t robbed me of every three-word sentence. “I don’t know” cascades from my mouth quite often. Without shame. In fact, I find it odd when scholars, pseudo or otherwise, avoid “I don’t know” as if it betrays their expert status or announces the ever-feared admission of imposter.

Maybe I’m naïve, but “I don’t know” seems more like an invitation to a journey, a path to an overlooked adventure that, at times, may necessitate digging or climbing or racing or hours alone in a library. All of which seem quite alluring to me. Quite exciting, actually. For “I don’t know” announces “I am unfolding;” “I’m in process;” “I need God.” More of him. All of him. Or at least as much as I can retain in a cracked and leaking vessel. To me, “I don’t know” shouldn’t be feared, because it grabs my hand and guides me ever closer to a God far beyond me yet right beside me.

Then again, maybe most three-word sentences do the same.

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