Who Am I?

Who am I? They often tell me

I stepped from my cell’s confinement

Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,

Like a squire from his country-house.

Who am I? They often tell me

I used to speak to my warders

Freely and friendly and clearly,

As though it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me

I bore the days of misfortune

Equally, smilingly, proudly,

Like one accustomed to win.

This is the first part of a poem written by Dietrich Bonheoffer while in a German prison towards the end of WW2. He had come to the conclusion that Hitler had caused too much evil and to stand still and do nothing could not be justified. I was reading Psalm 18 this morning and pictured Bonhoeffer leaning against a wall in his cell whispering the words. I imagined that as a church minister he would have committed scripture to memory for those times when he did not have a bible to hand. There is something about the way people of God are expected to triumph in adversity.

My cancer journey has lasted maybe eight months so far. I want to present people with someone who triumphs over adversity, someone who determines to see a glass half full – someone who always has a the unmoving rock of Christ beneath her feet. And all of that is true. My own version of the beginning of his poem might look something like this.

They often tell me

As I walk through the church door wearing a hat

Or a wig , that I am looking marvellous.

A smile on the face, cheerful

They often tell me

That I speak of my treatment positively

The bruised hands, the bald head are but temporary

I have this, God has this

They also tell me

I am sailing through chemotherapy side effects

Buoyed up by tablets and creams

Valiantly, patiently, winning through.

For the most part it is true.

The rest of Bonhoeffer’s poem is about how he sees himself – and it is so different. To others he is calm and composed, smiling and cheerful. Peeling back the surface, he admits to feeling caged and unquiet, worrying about his friends, weary and unable to pray.

Am I then really all that which other men tell of?

Or am I only what I myself know of myself?

Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,

Struggling for breath, as though hands were

compressing my throat,

Yearning for colours, for flowers, for the voices of birds,

Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighbourliness,

Tossing in expectation of great events,

Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,

Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,

Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?

There arI have to deal with now that I did not have before, my own cage perhaps. There is a yearning for normality. As the hand becomes more bruised it becomes a challenge to find a vein for blood tests and for places to anchor an needle for meds to be pumped in. There isn’t the opportunity to sit with friends so it is a lonely few hours. I have plans to sit and pray but I have never been one for praying silently. Hovering in the background is the spectre of ‘what if it doesn’t work?’ or being given a use by date. I have had this discussion with myself long before cancer struck. I am ready with the farewells. I have lived a full life.

Here is my version of this part of his poem.

I yearn for an end to bruises and needles,

For strength to see a task through to its end.

I soak up kindness like dry grass in a parched land.

I hate being powerless as cancer marches through.

Hope hovers, sometimes loiters at a distance.

Too much thinking, too much fretting, too much waiting

Bonhoeffer doesn’t end his poem without hope.

Who am I? This or the other?

Am I one person today and tomorrow another?

Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,

And before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?

Or is something within me still like a beaten army,

Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.

Whoever I am, Thou knowest, 0 God, I am Thine!

He ends his questions with an answer – ‘Whoever I am, Thou knowest, 0 God, I am Thine!’ It is a truth that undergirds everything. Bonhoeffer peals back an honesty with himself and is prepared for others to see rawness. There is an unmoving rock beneath his feet.

I have that same unshifting rock too. My glass isn’t just half full – but overflowing – but sometimes I am too tired and too bruised to drink.

Just as I am not always who I am, sometimes I don’t think I really allow God to be who He is. He longs to peel back the surface too and be Himself – someone much more impressive, more vibrant, more involved than I allow. He is not the silent partner in the business, but the initiator of all that happens.