Out of the Blue: The Unexpected Adventure of Life Interrupted

By Greg Murtha and Bob Goff

Greg Murtha's high-achiever life didn't go as planned. Not even close. Cancer interrupted it. And in Greg's words:

That's a good thing because, without cancer, I would never have embraced the joy of following Jesus with reckless abandon or experienced the exhilaration of sensing the promptings of the Holy Spirit. I woul

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clear Day Media Group
• Release date: Sep 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780986373497

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Chapter Intro

chapter

1

life interrupted

Bad things can turn out to be good things—really good things.

On a COLD DECEMBER MORNING in 2011, I ran eleven miles on the picturesque Crocket Hills Trail in Middle Tennessee. There, trees form a canopy over the path, a stream flows quietly nearby, and it’s not uncommon to see deer, turkeys, raccoons, and squirrels living the life—blissfully unaffected by biking or running humans. That morning, I was in the zone. With a powerful but loose stride, I clipped off the miles, one by one, breathing in crisp, clean air and feeling good.

As a 46-year-old man in what I thought was peak physical condition, eleven miles was nothing. Afterward, sweating but pumped, I headed for the bathroom at the YMCA. That’s when my runner’s high deflated. It appeared as if someone had poured a container of bright-red blood into the toilet. It was a lot of blood, and I realized instantly, this is not good.

From the outside looking in, I had it made. As the Chief Connections Officer at the Halftime Institute, I recruited high-profile people from around the world for an organization I cofounded with Bob Buford, whose groundbreaking book Halftime: Moving from Success to Significance inspired many to make that move. My beautiful wife, Tracey, and I lived in upscale Brentwood, Tennessee, with our young son, Jackson.

Five words changed everything: Mr. Murtha, you have cancer.

Before moving to Brentwood, we were founding members of Watermark Community Church in Dallas, where we spearheaded the follow-up ministry and led two small groups. An immigrant family of four from Zimbabwe, Africa, lived with us. Neighbors viewed us as wonderful humanitarians. Church friends enjoyed doing life with us.

But then, five words changed everything:

Mr. Murtha, you have cancer.

On January 27, 2012, one month after that scenic eleven-mile run, Tracey and I left the doctor’s office and headed to our favorite Nashville eatery, Calypso Café. We were seated at a table for two in the middle of the well-liked restaurant. Laughter and easy-going banter wafted from other tables.

After the server had taken our order, I looked at Tracey and mumbled, The doctor just said I have cancer, which was both a statement and a question.

Yes, Tracey slowly replied. He did.

Tears started streaming down my face. While I wasn’t sure what the future held, I was certain nothing would ever be the same. Out of the blue, my well-planned life had been radically interrupted.

Waiting for the Call

Frankly, my glass is not half full or half empty. My glass is overflowing. I once took a personality assessment at a corporate retreat. The individual who administered the assessment told me he had never met anyone who scored as high as I did in the realm of optimistic extroversion. Heck, I was a cheerleader in college; positive thinking is in my DNA. So, even though my cancer diagnosis brought me to tears in the middle of Calypso Café, I immediately believed, deep down, we would beat it. I had no idea what beating it would look like, how it would feel, or even what it would require of me, but I was confident we would win.

Days later, after we had chosen a surgeon and set a date for my operation, I made a cancer battle plan. I was good with planning and had a long to-do list to prove it. Although I was already in the best shape of my adult life, I decided to train for the surgery. I upped my running, biking, and weightlifting to the next level. It was my way of saying, Bring it on! Want a fight? You’ve got it!

On a Friday at the crack of dawn, I arrived at the hospital for my operation. Dr. Paul Wise and his surgical team removed one foot of my colon laparoscopically. On Saturday, guests filled my hospital room, and I felt great. Sunday, I walked the 18th-of-a-mile-loop on my floor—18 times. On Monday, I walked out of the hospital carrying my bag. Tuesday evening, Tracey and I attended a fundraiser for colorectal cancer awareness at the Country Music Hall of Fame, an invitation we had accepted long before my diagnosis. (My mother died of complications from the disease.) While there, we ran into Dr. Wise, a few of my nurses, and my oncologist. They were amazed we were out and about already, but I felt terrific.

For the remainder of the week, I rested at home and waited for the call about my lab results. Candidly, I was cautiously optimistic the cancer that had interrupted my well-planned life was behind me. Thursday afternoon, I was sitting on the leather sofa in our family room when my cell phone rang. Dr. Wise got straight to the point.

"Mr. Murtha, the results are in, and we’re dealing with Aggressive Stage III cancer. The tumor has grown through the colon wall, and there is evidence of cancer cells in your lymphatic system. Typically, I encourage my patients to wait a few weeks to heal from surgery before we start chemotherapy; however, I recommend that you start chemo