Bypassing the Process

As a goal-oriented, closure-seeking INFJ, the growth process can be challenging.  I want to have arrived now.  To know the lesson now.  To be aware of the ending now.  Submitting to a process is often a struggle for me.  I want to rush through all the steps to achieve a final product.  I forget that a solid building requires a sturdy foundation, solid wood, accurately-placed nails, and a host of projects that necessitate keen attention to detail.  You wouldn't want to buy a house that was built in a day (unless, perhaps, it was a tiny house).

I like when my life feels settled.  Loose ends make me anxious.  Ambiguity causes minor panic.  When circumstances are out of my control, I can get a little crazy--overanalyzing, ruminating, contemplating, plotting.  My mind goes into overdrive as I consider all the various ways a scenario could turn out.  And by worrying, somehow I think that I am taking control of the situation.  Too bad my worrying seems to muddle a situation more than remedy it.

I see a flaw in myself, one that alarms me and embarrasses me.  I care more about the end result than I do the steps taken to get there.  While I am a fan of self-discovery and the process of getting to know oneself, everything that happens outside of my own consciousness feels scary and uncertain, and that is when I stop being interested in processes.  I would rather immediately know outcomes than gradually progress through stages that I cannot control.

I know that not all growth can come from within.  We go through periods of growth as a result of circumstances, people, the environment, etc.  We are not immune to the effects and influence of the external world.  But so often I wish I could manage and dictate those effects and that influence.  I suppose what I'm really saying is that I'm afraid, and that I'd rather shield myself and avoid dangers than face a life of vulnerability.

Today, my friend told me that it seems as though I purposefully place myself in situations where I am shielded from the get-go, so that there is never the risk or option of being vulnerable.  I avoid opportunities to drop my shield, and instead cling to two types of existence: the internal world of my own consciousness, and the part of the external world where it would be unsafe for me to let my guard down.  I altogether avoid a third type of existence: the external world where it is safe for me to venture unguarded.  I'm not even sure I know how to be in the external world without a shield.

Admitting my reluctance to be vulnerable makes me feel vulnerable.  Or, perhaps I feel vulnerable admitting to the external world that I live a shielded life.  I say I want to change, but do I?  Dropping the shield means being exposed, and that is the thing I am most terrified of.  But what about being exposed is so terrifying?  The potential to be hurt, rejected, or abandoned?  Do I cling to familiar complacency because I'd rather know no change than risk being wounded?  Am I not harming myself anyway by avoiding growth?

And that is what it all comes down to--if I avoid the process, I avoid change.  I either want to see immediate results that demand no pathway of vulnerability, or I want to maintain the status quo.  Despite the fact that I claim I want my life to change, in reality I live in a way that reflects a desire to keep everything the same.  Don't rock the boat.  Don't stir the waters.  Just leave everything be.  Don't seek change--you'll just be wounded.  Stay in your comfortable little shell forever.

They say that with great risk comes great reward.  I am trying to think back on the greatest risks I've taken.  Has great reward followed?  Often, pain has followed.  And maybe that is why I am now scared to risk, because historically my risks have not always turned out as hoped.  But would I not take the risks if given second chances?  I think that I would, because despite the pain that has often followed each risk, growth has followed too.  And without those risks I would not be who I am today, and I am quite proud of where I've come from and who I've become.

I also must acknowledge that there will be times I take risks and embrace vulnerability, and it won't be pain that follows, but joy.  So while I certainly avoid getting hurt by shielding myself from risk, I also avoid potentially the deepest joy I could ever know.  And I am tired of living my life on the sidelines, longing for the kind of existence that embraces risk and all the joys and sorrows that come with it.  I want to dive into the process, and leave the safety of this shell I have so carefully constructed for myself.  I want change.

Isaiah 55:22 (NIV)

You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.

Self-Acceptance and Authentic Relational Connection

I have low self-esteem.  I feel both burdened and annoyed by this.  And, somehow, acknowledging that I don't feel very good about myself actually makes me feel worse about myself.  I peruse Google for tips on how to create healthy self-esteem, and for information on the emotional causes of self-sabotage.  I know there's no quick-fix when it comes to loving yourself; it's a slow and steady process that comes with time, healing, and probably help.  Sometimes I wonder how much of our sense of self-worth is affected by our language; because I have diseases, do I then see myself as inherently diseased?  I understand the disease label as an indicator of functioning that differs from "normal," but what is normal anyway?  And if the word disease didn't hold so many connotations of abnormality and brokenness, would the various days of my diagnoses have brought such sadness and disappointment?

Last night, I found an article that discusses our use of addictive behaviors to deal with loneliness and low self-esteem.  The author focuses in particular on eating, but the ideas extend to any practices that distract us from our own emotional turmoil, namely loneliness.

When you’re chronically lonely, just being around other people doesn’t fix it.  You can be married and lonely; you can be lonely in a crowd.  If you’re chronically lonely, what you lack is authentic connections with other human beings, and generally that’s because you block these connections by not sharing your authentic self.  Why?

People who are chronically lonely almost always have as a core problem that they don’t like themselves very much. The give-away is that they generally find it almost unbearable to be alone--especially at night when the distractions of the day are over and it’s quiet.  They may even dread turning off the light to go to sleep at night, and procrastinate on that.

Chronically lonely people often have an almost phobic reaction to being by themselves.  It feels like falling down a black hole--an awful "dust in the wind" feeling of utter emptiness and alienation from everything and everyone, as though you’re the only person on the planet.  If you live alone, you probably avoid going home at night because you can’t bear to be home alone with that feeling.  You call it loneliness, but it’s really something else.  It’s the horrors; it’s existential alienation.  The Big Empty.

Quiet evenings alone are often when emotional eaters binge, perhaps numbing out in front of the TV.  They may stay awake until so late that they practically drop from exhaustion, or they may use alcohol to go to sleep so they don’t have to experience their own thoughts lying in bed in the dark.

What is this about?  If you can’t bear to be by yourself, it essentially means you can’t bear yourself--you can’t bear your own company, you can’t bear the experience of being "you".  That is a huge problem, and it’s also a big block to developing healthy relationships.  That’s why it goes along with loneliness and people call it loneliness, but it’s not exactly the same as loneliness.

You can’t stand your own company without distractions because you don’t like yourself.  And because you don’t like yourself, you assume no one else will like you either, causing you to shun social contact, making you lonely.

Sheryl Canter argues that the only solution to chronic loneliness is authentic human connection, or finding people who accept and love you in your entirety--which I don't think can be done until we accept and love ourselves and truly believe we deserve acceptance and love.

The only thing that cures loneliness is authentic human connection.  That means allowing another to see you for who you really are and experiencing their acceptance, and seeing another for who they really are and accepting them.

If you don’t like yourself much, it can be scary to let others see the real you.  Your impulse will be to hide your real thoughts and feelings under the mistaken notion that the real you is unacceptable and will be rejected.  But you’ve got to get past this and take the risk because if you never let anyone see you, you will stay lonely.

My lack of self-love is not a new realization, and I have discussed it openly in the past.  However, this week was the first time that I allowed my low self-esteem to affect my relationships with other people--and drawing people into my inner-turmoil is not something I want or hope to do.  Primarily, I don't want to hurt the people I care about.  And, equally important, I don't want my sense of self-worth to hinge on a relationship with anyone, because: 1.) humans are imperfect, and eventually I will be disappointed; 2.) that is an unfair amount of pressure and an unrealistic expectation to place on an individual.

Several years ago, I had a vision of myself carrying around my heart in my hand, trying to pass it along to anyone who would take it.  In many ways, I think I still do that, desperately seeking a person who will see me holistically and love every part of me.  I know that approval, affirmation, and acceptance need to come from my relationship with God first and foremost.  Sometimes I am so overwhelmed by my own neediness and sense of waywardness.  He promises to draw near to me as I attempt to draw near Him, and that truth is my only comfort.

Psalm 139: 1-5, 16 (CEB)
"Lord, you have examined me.

You know me.

You know when I sit down and when I stand up.

Even from far away, you comprehend my plans.
You study my traveling and resting.
You are thoroughly familiar with all my ways.
There isn’t a word on my tongue, Lord,
that you don’t already know completely.
You surround me--front and back.
You put your hand on me.
Your eyes saw my embryo,

and on your scroll every day was written that was being formed for me,

before any one of them had yet happened."

I am a survivor.

That moment when you remember how your professors radically changed your life...

That moment when you're reminded of the vision you held for your future...

That moment when you realize you're a survivor.

Today is the 16-week anniversary of my total thyroidectomy, and thus my 112th day of being cancer-free.  These anniversaries are largely non-monumentous.  Every few weeks, I take a photo of my scar and post it on Facebook with a caption about which anniversary I've reached.  The photos always garner "likes" and comments, and they're a small and simple way for me to celebrate.  I have also been turning these photos into "covers" for my Facebook profile, after I add to them the statement "I am a survivor."

The fact that I'm a survivor has been a conscious reality since the day I was diagnosed with cancer.  But I have given the title (survivor) little meaningful thought in the past few weeks.  I don't know that I really considered what the word meant beyond the fact that it made a statement about my having battled cancer.  However, something in me shifted tonight as I read those words.

I've been struggling a lot lately with trying to figure out the future.  I realize that working in retail is unsatisfying and impractical for the long-haul.  I want to contribute something to the greater good of mankind--research, teaching, love.  I want to make a difference in the world.  As an INFJ, my heartstrings are always pulled in so many directions.  I read an article recently that said that career options for INFJs are always simultaneously exciting and heartbreaking.  As idealists, the world of possibility is thrilling and produces in us all sorts of fantasies about the future.  However, all of those possibilities are also crippling, because we come to realize that to pursue one pathway is to sacrifice another.  We can't do everything.  And so at once none of the options are appealing any longer because we can't do all of them in one self-designed career (wouldn't that be nice?).  It's frustrating.

So, I've been dealing with all of that INFJ confusion--the appeal and drawbacks of every job out there.  Add on top of this the fact that INFJs often feel misunderstood (and often are misunderstood) when sharing their intuitive insights, so people write off this deep analysis of future options as crazed neuroticism.  The INFJ then packs up all this thought and places it back into the very personal introverted intuitive luggage, and once again starts mulling over the more "conventional" options, because those aren't considered "crazy."

And then I get to throw an autoimmune disease, endocrine disease, MTHFR gene mutation, and histamine intolerance into the mix of my endless thought processes, which does result in a certain amount of crazy as I try to create a game-plan for my future.

The past few weeks I've been revisiting the idea of pursuing a Ph.D., as I think it may be one of the only career paths that affords me the level of freedom and time for contemplation that I'm seeking.  The struggle I have been facing with this idea is what kind of research agenda I would propose in my personal statement.  I want to write something honest and compelling, but to be honest would be to say that I really don't know what I want to do doctoral level research on.  Earlier tonight I read through old personal statements and academic essays, and then found a letter I wrote to my professors when I graduated from Cal Poly.  The letter mostly talks about how their mentorship and guidance is what made me want to become a professor in the first place (over eight years ago), and how I wanted to inspire my future students in the same ways my teachers inspired me.

When I finished reading the letter and closed it on my desktop, the first thing I saw was the cover photo I had posted on my Facebook profile earlier today.  It felt like the "I am a survivor" statement was boring a hole into my heart.  For the first time, those words made me want to cry.  They no longer just meant that I battled cancer, but that who I am in my very essence is a culmination of every event that has ever happened to me, both in the past and moving into the future.  I could easily say "I have hope" or "I have a future," and they would mean the same thing as telling people that I'm a survivor.

Writing this now brings to mind the verse that was a favorite for years and years--the one that all my friends knew I loved, and that caused them to give me knowing glances whenever we read or heard it.  It was my signature verse, for reasons that I won't outline in this post.  But, suffice it to say, the words still hold profound meaning in my heart, and are something I think I need a reminder of today.

Jeremiah 29:11

"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future'" (New International Version).

or

"I know the plans I have in mind for you, declares the Lord; they are plans for peace, not disaster, to give you a future filled with hope" (Common English Bible).

I take the GRE in one week.  My prayer is that during the test, these words will be my companion:

I am a survivor.

I have hope.

I have a future.

Trading Beauty for Ashes

I've never observed and experienced something so painful and scary turn into something so beautiful and awe-inspiring.

When I woke up this morning, I realized that I already had over $1,000 in cancer treatment donations from friends and family members, and I was moved to tears.  For most of my life, I've been an activist for various causes, and it's always been natural for me to champion a particular group's fight for justice.  When my sister and I were working to create an online place for loved ones to give towards my medical expenses, it felt like we were planning for someone else (typical INFJ that I am, I just can't tolerate the spotlight).  I was distracted from my diagnosis because I was focused on a goal and on spreading awareness.  It wasn't about me.

But then when I awoke to messages of compassion and concern, an outpouring of notes on Facebook and e-mails in my inbox, plus everyone's generous financial gifts, it hit me that all this is about me.  And I realize that it's actually about God, and my family, and a variety of people touched by my life in different ways, but it was the no-strings-attached rallying on my behalf that made me feel more loved than I probably ever have before.

I am reminded that He is with me and for me.  He surrounds me, front and back.  He places His hand upon me.  This unconditional love and rooting for my healing is the tiniest reflection of the depth and extravagance of the love He holds for us.  To contemplate that fact boggles my mind.  These gifts are from Him, this love is of Him.  And so in spite of this past week being one of the hardest of my life, my being forced to rely on the profound love of those around me makes me more aware of Him, and at the end of the day there is nothing more I could want.

The Day I Was Diagnosed with Cancer

For posterity's sake, since I'm sure one day I'll want to remember all the details...

It's been nearly 12 hours since my doctor gave me the news, and I think it's just now starting to sink in.  I have thyroid cancer.  I thought I was prepared for this diagnosis and that I expected this diagnosis--but somehow it still left me in a haze for most of the day.

At the beginning of May, I had my annual thyroid ultrasound and learned that my once-tiny nodule had doubled in size over the course of a year.  Because of this, the radiologist who analyzed images from my exam recommended a biopsy to determine the tumor's cytology.  I then had an ultrasound-guided fine needle aspiration biopsy performed on my thyroid last Friday.  Once the doctors tell you that they're seeing something suspicious, you start to brace yourself for the worst.  I had been mentally telling myself that I might have cancer--but still the whole idea of cancer didn't really sink in because I didn't know if I actually had it.  The assignment of that word seems to instantly make things sound a lot more serious.

I anxiously awaited news of the biopsy results from my doctor.  When I got off of work last night, I saw that I had a missed call and voicemail from my endocrinologist.  She didn't leave any specific information in the message, but I knew from her choice of words that it was likely not good.  She didn't indicate that there was no cause for worry, and made it seem very important that I speak with her as soon as I could.  I started to get a little emotional while driving home, and then once I was home and told my mom about the message, I broke down.  Here I had been talking for weeks about the possibility of having cancer, and then the reality hit that I might actually have it after all.  I just kept saying to my mom, "I have a feeling it's going to be bad."

I barely slept last night.  The hours I did sleep were restless, and then I work up nearly 3 hours earlier than I needed to.  I was making myself sick with worry, to the point that I went to the bathroom about 12 times in the span of just a couple hours.  I had to make a smoothie for breakfast because liquids were just about all I could stomach, and I knew I needed some nutrients.  Since my doctor didn't try calling me again last night or first thing in the morning like she had suggested she might, before work I ended up driving over to the imaging center where I had the biopsy done so that I could get a copy of the report.  Unfortunately, the pathology hadn't been faxed to them yet, so I left empty-handed.  Then I tried calling my primary care physician's office to see if they might have a copy of the report, but once again I was unsuccessful.  So, despite my best efforts at quelling the major anxiety I was experiencing, I was forced to continue to wait.

I got to work and couldn't really think about anything except for the fact that my doctor needed to talk to me and that she had the results and I didn't.  It's terrible knowing that the truth is out there, but is being kept from you.  I checked my phone a few times while at work, and saw that I had a missed call from my doctor's medical assistant, asking that I leave a message at their office with some good times that the doctor could call me.  I was so anxious to talk to my endocrinologist by this point that I left my work phone number and told her to call me there.  This situation seemed to grant an exception to a standard no-work-phones-for-personal-use policy.

Less than an hour after I called my doctor's office, the phone rang, my co-worker picked it up and then let me know the call was for me.  I excused myself to my boss's office and took the call there.  I don't remember everything my doctor said in those first few moments we spoke, but I don't think I'll ever forget these words: "They did find some cancer cells."  I was actually relatively calm and collect when she shared the news with me.  She told me about the type of cancer (papillary) and the prognosis (good).  She told me she would send me the names of some excellent surgeons and promised to be with me every step of the way.  She even offered to speak with my mom and explain it all to her.

After the phone call, I walked into the bathroom for a few seconds where I cried, but then quickly composed myself and got back out to the floor.  We've all heard the expression "I felt like I was dreaming," but I think today marks the first time I truly experienced what those words mean.  I was conscious and in my body, but it just sort of felt like everything was going on around me and I was totally detached from it.  Cancer.  Cancer.  Cancer.  At first, saying, "I have cancer," made me cry.  Now it's starting to sound more normal.  My new normal.

I realized that I should tell my manager what was going on, so I pulled her aside into the office and said aloud for the first time, "I have cancer."  She was truly wonderful and compassionate and actually managed to make me crack up amidst all of it, which I think is a gift of hers.  She excused me to make some phone calls and told me to not worry about getting hours covered.  I then called my mom, and for the second time I spoke the words, "I have cancer," and again the tears came.

Today was certainly not my most focused, but somehow I managed to get through a full workday.  While at lunch, I subtly broke the news to Facebook friends. My mom brought me flowers at work.  I contemplated the fact that not a single customer knew that the sales associate helping them was just diagnosed with cancer.

I got off work and returned home in that same foggy mental state.  I talked to my parents for awhile, and I cried fewer tears and had an easier time talking about my cancer.  I have cancer.

And life still goes on.  I ate my regular dinner and did my regular gym routine and the whole world kept on being normal.  Except I can't help but feel like everything's changed now--like my whole life is going to now be marked on a timeline of "before cancer" versus "after cancer."  I think about the fact that soon I will be a member of the group "cancer survivors."  I also think about the post I wrote several weeks ago and said that at least my thyroid disease isn't cancer--but now it is cancer.  One phone call changed me forever.

Before I heard the official news, somewhere amidst trips to the bathroom and the imaging center, I kept thinking about Psalm 139:5.  He goes with me and before me.  His hand is upon me.  Knowing that He's prepared the way and is not surprised by this and that nothing's changed for Him comforts me, because right now amidst all the changes I can be sure that He will be steadfast and unchanging.  I have peace and hope because I know that He is my Great Physician and oversees my life and health.

Once the diagnosis came and news had time to settle, the verse that came to mind was Psalm 23:4.  Even when I walk through darkness, He's with me.  There is nothing to fear.

I know it might take a few days to truly process the news, but overall I have actually been impressed by my own resiliency (and I say that with sincere humility).  Somehow the word "cancer" makes me feel like I should be freaking out, but, despite my shock, I'm actually not all that surprised.  I think somewhere deep down I knew this was coming.  He goes before me and guides me.  He leads me to green pastures and still waters.  He restores my soul and fills my cup to overflowing.

What If I'm the Five Percent?

It's funny how passively we can talk about cancer when it poses no obvious threat to us or the people we love.  We use it as a sort of slang word--a word used in casual conversation to epitomize profound suffering.

For the past five years, I've had to get ultrasounds of my thyroid.  Initially, the doctor that diagnosed me with Hashimoto's just wanted a visual baseline of what was going on with my gland (nodules are common in those with autoimmune thyroid conditions).  With every test, there have been small changes, but generally no cause for concern.  My thyroid was inflamed, but it slowly got smaller, and my nodules weren't changing in size (actually, I think one disappeared).

When I went in to pick up my report from this year's ultrasound, I was surprised to see that the radiologist recommended a biopsy.  Not only this, but the nodule had doubled in size since my last exam.  You can imagine my alarm in learning this, when last year the basis for my and the doctors' believing the nodule was benign was the fact that it wasn't growing.

In terms of statistics, only five percent of thyroid nodules are malignant.  However, that rate dramatically increases when various factors are considered, like the patient's age, whether the nodule is solitary, and the nodule's features.  Unfortunately, despite the fact that most nodules are benign, mine meets many of the criteria that make it potentially cancerous, and none of the criteria that indicate it's probably benign.

It's a strange feeling not knowing whether you're part of the five percent.  Of course, immediately there is a lot of fear and sadness.  You troll the internet in hopes of being able to self-diagnose the nodule as malignant or benign (this is impossible without a biopsy).  You ruminate about the fact that you may or may not have cancer.  You spend a lot of time going back and forth in your mind, playing out the scenarios either way.  You realize that you will be okay either way.  Somehow, I think an actual diagnosis is probably a lot less scary than the not knowing.  When you have a diagnosis, you know which mountain you face.  When you don't know, you don't know.

Aside from being emotional (but that's nothing new), the news doesn't exactly surprise me.  I've been so inundated in healthcare and medical treatments during the past few years that I've almost come to anticipate issues like this one.  Yes, I am worried, but less about what will be done if I do have cancer than I am about having doctors and treatment protocols I trust.  A potential cancer diagnosis is terrifying to someone who is skeptical regarding modern medicine and suspicious about most doctors.

Today, I saw a new doctor that told me God made my cells and designed them to know what to do.  She said that I need to start thanking Him for my body and realize that He gave me a healthy body; it's the environment and our food and toxins that have tainted my healthy body.  Her words made me cry, because I so often think of myself as being sickly and diseased that I forget that I didn't start out this way.  It's comforting to know that God didn't give me a lemon from the get-go.  I was given a healthy body that bears the effects of an unhealthy world.

I need to start thinking of myself as healthy with or without a thyroid or some lymph nodes--whether or not I'm part of the five percent.  "For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh" (2 Cor. 4:11, NRSV).  I am healthy because His spirit is within me.

But You're So Young

If I had a quarter for every time someone exclaimed those words to me, I'd be a rich woman: "But you're so young!"

People are frequently astonished by the number of doctors appointments I've had, tens of thousands of dollars I've spent, and variety of specialists I've seen during the past five years.

Endocrinologists, gastroenterologists, naturopaths, orthopedic surgeons, neurologists, otolaryngologists, gynecologists.

Today I had a marathon of doctors appointments, from 8AM until 5PM.  I was told two important things: I'm special and I'm so young.  I suppose the two go hand-in-hand.  My body is so young that my chronic illnesses make it "special," and I am special so I was bequeathed the duty of bearing these chronic illnesses.

Hashimoto's thyroiditis.  Faulty thyroid.

PCOS.  Faulty ovaries.

Insulin resistance.  Faulty cells.

Meralgia paraesthetica.  Faulty nerves.

Chondromalacia patella.  Faulty bones.

Small intestinal bacterial overgrowth (yet to be diagnosed). Faulty digestive tract (I'll spare the details).

Chronic otitis media. Faulty ear canals (and faulty earwax).

And, for those reasons, today the neurologist's physician assistant proclaimed, "But you're so young!"

I returned home from my appointments feeling a little blue.  It's difficult not to be overwhelmed and sinking in a mire of self-pity when you're thrown orthotics and leg braces and physical therapy prescriptions and nerve tests and ear-canal suctioning and advisement to lose weight; when you're told your "special" ears (the doctor's words, not mine) require regular cleaning treatments and that you'll likely require knee replacement surgery in the future and that there's a 30% chance you'll never regain feeling in your thigh due to nerve damage.  After all that, you begin to share in the PA's sentiments--but I'm so young!

Every part of my body is affected, from top to bottom.  There is some faulty part of me in every section of my anatomy.  When you think of all those faulty bits, the distinction between faulty components and faulty whole becomes blurred.  I feel faulty.  I am faulty.

The one ray of hope that shone through the dark cloud of my brooding was a recollection of Paul the Apostle's words: "So we do not lose heart.  Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.  For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison,  as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen.  For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal" (2 Cor. 4:16-18).

Reflecting upon those words now, they bring tears to my eyes.  Yes; my outer self is wasting away.  Yes; I face affliction.  But, as my body undergoes treatments and receives diagnoses and becomes more and more faulty, my spirit is being made more whole.  I am being conformed more and more to His likeness.  My suffering is actually light and momentary.

"The eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison."  Those are words I want to cling to on days like today.  The eternal weight of glory.  The burden of my illnesses feels much lighter knowing how much weightier the coming glory will be.

My body is transient and temporal.  His purposes are eternal.