Timing...

When I think back, I can now remember that I never thought I would see old age.  I can’t put my finger on why but I didn’t.

Perhaps I was influenced by the immortal line in the film Blade Runner where the creator of the rogue replicants says to him “The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long, and you have burned so very very brightly.”

I was aware that I had been blessed with so many wonderful experiences of God, beyond anything I could justify. I have heard God speaking to me in many and various ways from my childhood. I experienced things on a regular basis which many Christians longed for just once.  God had been so good to me and his light had indeed burned so very very brightly.

This gave me a kind of fearlessness which embraced racing around the streets of London on two wheels, or sharing bunk beds with a recent triad ex–addict without question.

When I really needed God to speak to me, I knew where I could go and how to wait to hear from God.  I didn’t always get a direct answer to my questions, but I always received the next piece of the puzzle.

I had been so blessed and God’s light had burned so bright for me, perhaps I could only ever expect to live half as long.

That is not so unusual amongst the young, of course.  Being old seems such a very long way away, and so incomprehensible when you are in your teens and your twenties.

As I grew older however, other people came into my life – wife, son, daughter. Priorities change.  Plans change.  Whereas once I could be ready to pack bags at a moment's notice for a new experience in life, there were now other people to think about.  Other considerations.  Growing old starts to become more attractive as the time of life when I could relax with my wife after our children had flown the nest.

Mel and I had planned to retire to Oban on the west coast of Scotland.  I would buy a second hand Rib and explore the channels and islands.  We would hold hands and watch the sun setting over the sea.

I forgot about my younger premonitions.

Now of course, we know that will never be. After another few weeks of struggling, I was admitted to hospital last week for more scans.  They showed that my cancer has now spread to my liver and lungs. That’s a full house for the major organs which are monitored for Prostate Cancer.  It is travelling at will around my body.  I have reached the limit of treatment for radiotherapy.  There is no chemotherapy available.  My cancer is resistant to the standard chemo and I am not well enough to even contemplate the only stronger alternative.

The  consensus is that I have entered my last few months of life on this earth.

And so to timing.

Recently, I shared my ambivalent thoughts on retiring (Broken Vessels) and it just so happened that on the day of my official retirement last Friday, I was transferred from hospital to our local hospice in Dorchester.  The timing was poignant to say the least.

I should only be here for a few days this time to get my meds on an even keel and control my pain to give me some quality of life for the time I have left.

Which brings me to one positive thought tonight and the opportunity to express it.  As I face this shortening fuse, at least I get the opportunity to prepare for my death – a luxury which many do not enjoy - and I want use it to ensure that, wherever possible, I am at peace with others.

So to anyone I have hurt over the years, I humbly ask your forgiveness. And to anyone who knows they have hurt me, may I assure you of mine.

In the last few moments of Blade Runner it is the android, the replicant who is about to die, that displays the greatest humanity.  Built to destroy, he chooses to save a life as his last act before the curtains come down on his own – and he saves the life of the person  who has been sent to kill him.

There is nothing so dramatic in my life, but I have often found myself in conflict with others during my ministry and conflict almost inevitably leads to one or both parties being hurt.

Neither is this a death-bed confession (I've got a few months to go yet and nothing to warrent such hype!) but setting things straight is given a high priority in the Gospels.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says,

“Therefore, if you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there in front of the altar. First go and be reconciled to them; then come and offer your gift.

(Matthew 5:23;24)

In the Lord's Prayer, our own forgiveness is inextricably linked with our willingness to forgive others.

"Forgive us our sins
as we have forgiven those who sin against us."

Forgiveness shared and exchanged is the only way in God’s kingdom and I both offer and seek this as part of my preparation for what lies ahead.

Beyond that, I would ask for your continuing prayers for my wife Mel, son Isaac and  daughter Iona. They are uppermost in my thoughts and prayers at this time and I would be grateful if you could spare a moment for them from time to time.

For myself, I have found encouragement in the words of Psalm 16 recently:

I keep my eyes always on the LORD.
With him at my right hand, I shall not be shaken.
Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices;
my body also will rest secure,
because you will not abandon me to the realm of the dead,
nor will you let your faithful one see decay.
You make known to me the path of life;
you will fill me with joy in your presence,
with eternal pleasures at your right hand.
Amen.

Broken Vessels

I have just agreed my retirement date with the Church of England.  It will be the 30^th November.

This is not because I have reached retirement age of course.  I have been granted ill-health retirement as a result of my cancer.  Having been unable to work since I was in hospital in August and seeing no prospect of returning in any meaningful way, I put in my application for retirement soon afterwards.   My early retirement will also allow the Diocese to begin looking for my successor so all in all, it is the best solution. 

But it leaves me with an uneasy feeling deep in my bowels as intertwining strands of relief and sadness weave their way through my body and soul.

When I was first diagnosed, I decided that I would keep working for as long as possible.  “What else would I do?” was a phrase which I often used when asked, and I profoundly disliked the idea of just sitting at home waiting to die.  “I’m not giving up yet” was another mantra I employed which begs the question “Am I giving up now?”

From my diagnosis in August 2017, I continued to work full time until I started chemotherapy in the Autumn.  Even then I just took two days off around each chemo infusion and worked from home when I was most prone to infection.  It was still pretty full on.

As time went on though, things started to get more difficult.

Towards the end of my 5 months of chemotherapy, I found that I wasn’t recovering as quickly after each cycle and began working 10am-4pm each day.  A little later this had to reduce further to working Monday, Wednesday and Friday, allowing me days in between to rest and recover.  The one hour drive to and from the office also started to take its toll.

Then I began to notice that God was giving me hints.

The first came in February this year.  I was due to see me oncologist for results of a CT scan.  The results would show how successful my treatment had been so far.  Before we set off for the hospital, I settled down to my morning prayers with the appointment very much in mind.  When I got to the gospel reading in Celtic Daily Prayer, I found it was a single verse.

 “Lord you now let your servant depart in peace, according to your word, for my eyes have seen your salvation.” (Luke2:29)

These were the words spoken by the old prophet Simeon when he saw the baby Jesus and knew that God’s promise to him had been fulfilled.  Now he was ready to die in peace.

I was taken aback. What did this mean?  What was I about to be told? 

At the appointment I found that the scan results were mixed.  Some mets (tumours) had shrunk, some had grown and there were some new ones.  It wasn’t what my oncologist had hoped for but it wasn’t disastrous.  I knew it didn’t signal the end in my fight with cancer, so what was God trying to tell me?  Was there something else which was coming to an end?

The second hint was less subtle.  In July, I was on my way to celebrate Communion with a group of young people who were spending a year in the diocese exploring vocation.  It was always a joy to meet with them and a privilege to celebrate Communion, yet while driving there I felt so tired.  I prayed, “Lord, please, if you want me to keep working, I need some energy!”

At the end of Communion, I packed my communion set away as usual and set off for home, still feeling dreadfully tired.  At home I got the pottery pattern and chalice out to clean them properly only to find the chalice in pieces.  I had stored and carried it in the same way for years without any incident and yet somehow, this time, it had been broken.

As I held its broken pieces in my hands I felt immediately overwhelmed.  I knew what God was saying.  Central to the ministry of any priest is the celebration of Holy Communion.  It was time to let go.

Being a good Charismatic Evangelical however, I knew that I should never rush into anything, but wait for a third and final confirmation of this word to me.  I talked with my spiritual director and we agreed that I would wait to see what my oncologist said when we next met.

I didn’t have to wait long.  In August I was unexpectedly admitted to hospital feeling very poorly.  After yet another scan, my oncologist appeared at the bottom of my bed with the news that the treatment was not keeping pace with the development of my cancer.  Things would only get harder from now on.  I knew the time had come to set work aside.

Looking back, I had been preparing for it at work.  Over the last 12 months, I had been working to make my role more sustainable without me; putting together teams of people who could carry on the important work of identifying and encouraging people who God is calling to Christian ministry.  Some areas were now strong enough and ready, but others were not.  Couldn’t I have had a just few more months, to future-proof everything?

As I reflected on this, I have realised that it would always have felt this way.  It would never have felt that I had done enough so the feeling is irrelevant.  ““Lord you now let your servant depart in peace” is all I have to rely on, that God feels I have done enough.

And yet the sadness remains.  In the end it all feels very sudden.  I first felt God’s call to ordained ministry over 40 years ago when I was just 14 and being obedient to that call has been at the very centre of everything for me, and subsequently for myself, my wife, & family, ever since.  Now, suddenly, it is over.

After I found my broken chalice, my wife Mel suggested we repair it and told me about the Japanese art of Kintsugi where broken pottery is repaired using lacquer infused with gold, making the result much more beautiful and, indeed valuable.  I wasn’t in a place where I could hear this at the time.  The broken pieces went into the bin

I regret that now and wish I had listened to her (how many times do husbands say that?!)  God is in the business of binding up the broken after all, and bringing beauty out of brokenness.  I was too hasty with my chalice, perhaps because the truth its broken pieces revealed to me was too uncomfortable to accept at that time.

Broken Vessels by Leila Mather

But then in September, one of my friends shared on Facebook a piece of art which she had created.  Leila entitled it “Broken Vessels”.  I cannot guess at what she saw in her each element of her painting, but I know how it spoke to me.

The lines of gold in the chalice speak to me of a broken vessel restored in that ancient Japanese tradition.  Each one showing an element of brokenness and yet also celebrated and valued as the cup returns to useful service.  The dove is the Holy Spirit still descending on this broken cup with God’s blessing and anointing.  The blue lines around the dove’s head speak to me to the waters of life still flowing into the chalice, or flowing out to the world around it.

Perhaps God isn’t finished with me yet.

The Bible verse quoted in the painting reminds us that “We have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.” (2 Corinthians 4:7)

My sadness comes from the realisation that I am a jar of clay, and one which is breaking a little more each day, but I can also be thankful for the treasure which God has placed inside.  My calling to be a priest continues of course, irrespective of whether I am working in the church or retired.  Perhaps God may yet have some things for me to do, broken as I am.

I retire from ministry on 30^th November, but my calling carries on.

One year on

It was a year ago this weekend that I received my official diagnosis.

After all the scans, biopsies and blood tests, the results were in and it was cancer – advanced prostate cancer.   After we told family, friends and work colleagues, I wrote The Enemy Within.  A lot has happened since then.

By April this year, I had completed my initial treatment – hormones, radio and chemo (see After Treatment) and I settled into a less rigorous regime while monitoring my PSA which had been successfully driven down from over 300 to the mid-teens.

More recently however, things have taken a turn for the worse.  Although my PSA has stayed low, I did not experience the improvement that I hoped for after finishing chemo.  I have continued to work as much as I can, but day to day life has been getting harder.  All this came to a head a fortnight ago when I was admitted into the Dorset Cancer Centre in Poole for a few days to get back on track with pain relief, vomiting and constipation.

I had a new CT scan, and the next morning, much to my surprise, my oncologist appeared at the end of my bed to give me the news.  Despite all my treatment over the last 12 months, my cancer has continued to grow and develop.  Two of my lumber vertebrae are in an early state of collapse, and my lymph node cancer has grown to the point where it is putting pressure onto my right kidney.  The CT scan also revealed that the cancer has eaten away the bone in my right femur at the hip, and I am now on crutches to stave off spontaneous fracture.

Not the news we wanted.

Treatment has started again in earnest.  I’ve had two more courses of radiotherapy and been prescribed Abiraterone, which is only licensed in the NHS for later stages of prostate cancer when other treatments have failed.  Simply put, my cancer is outrunning my treatment.  Timescales are shortening.  We hope the Abiraterone may overcome this deficit but even then, it will only work until the cancer adapts again.

The care I have received in the light of this news has been phenomenal.  In the past week alone, I have had three trips to Poole for radiotherapy together with two home visits from our hospice nurse, another from their occupational therapist, and my GP is going to visit me regularly at home from now on.  My basic pain relief has been changed to Fentanyl patches which will work whether I can keep food down or not, by absorption directly into the skin.

Adapting to this news brings to mind the many hundreds of people who have been praying for me during the past year; some in person, with the laying on of hands, many more in churches, prayer groups and over social media.  Many of you have been praying for healing for me, for victory over the cancer and deliverance from this cruel disease. 

The reflections which follow in this post are for you with gratitude, but also wisdom.  Knowing how to react to bad news in the midst of prayer is a tricky one. 

Following a revival in healing ministries in the 1970’s, there grew up a theology in some parts of the church which said “if only you had more faith” you would be healed.  That was not helpful.  It passed the blame for unanswered prayers to those who were praying or even to the person being prayed for, adding a kind of spiritual torture to those who were already ill.

In response to this others pointed out that any Christian theology of healing must also have a theology of dying if it is to be to be balanced and complete.  Christ did not die upon the cross to bring us eternal life here within the imperfections of a fallen world. He died and rose again to open the gates to eternal life in a new creation free from pain, sickness, sorrow and death.  Restating this was not just the task of theologians.  I remember Christian pioneer rock-star Larry Norman reminding us of this in his 1972 seminal album “Only visiting this planet” (still well worth a listen if you can find it!) including a lyric from a Jim Reeves song, “This world is not my home – I’m just passing through.”

A more modern trend dealing with disappointment in prayer is to search harder for things which may be blocking the power of God in our lives.  Emotional scars, sin, bitterness or unforgiveness are prime targets, and while I know that emotional healing can bring physical healing – I saw this so clearly in my mother’s arthritis – overemphasis of this can also lead into a rabbit hole of introspection trying desperately to discover the key to unlocking the healing which is desired.

The truth is that death can also be God’s healing, releasing us from the fettered bonds of this life into the glory of God’s presence.  Paul reminds us in Romans that “the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.” (Romans 8:18).

In my early 20’s, the Charismatic movement in the UK was challenged by the death of a major figure in the movement.  David Watson was at the height of his ministry as a renowned preacher, author and minister of the Gospel.  He saw God bringing healing to many, many people through his ministry around the world.  Then David was diagnosed with cancer and died at the age of 50.

I have mentioned David Watson’s last book (Fear no Evil) before.  Reading it again during this year, I have followed his journey from diagnosis, to the outpouring of prayer it provoked, with Christian celebrities quite literally flying in from all over the world to pray for his physical healing – a healing which David believed God would give.  After his terminal diagnosis and initial treatment, he continued with his ministry, took every opportunity to be prayed with, and yet the book charts with selfless honesty his journey to a place where he simply became open to God’s will, whatever that may be.

In Chapter 18 he wrote,

“Through the unexpected diagnosis of cancer I was forced to consider carefully my priorities in life, and to make some necessary adjustments.  I still do not know why God allowed it, nor does it bother me.  But I am beginning to hear what God is saying, and it has been enormously helpful to me.  As I turn to the Bible, I find passages coming alive for me, perhaps more than ever before.  As I praise God or listen to worship cassettes, my vision of the greatness and love of God is being continually reinforced.  I am content to trust myself to a loving God whose control is ultimate and whose wisdom transcends my own feeble understanding.”

In my own small way, that is where I am now.  My faith is strong but is also being moulded and tempered by the refiner’s fire and from now on, the prayers I would ask for me are as follows:

For God’s will to be done, whatever that may be.  If that is for healing, I am content to stay, but if my time is approaching, I am ready to embrace it.  This is not giving up and I have an extensive list of goals I would like to experience with my family before that day.  I also have a good many blog posts yet to write, publish and inflict on you all if you choose to read them!  But like Jesus in Gethsemane, my prayer to God is not my will, but yours.

Thank you to everyone who has been upholding me in prayer as well as everyone who has held us in their thoughts, sent their love and best wishes.  We are strengthened by them all.

The photo at the top of this blog post is from a hotel bedroom in Birmingham.  Surprisingly philosophical I thought, for a hotel…

The Embrace

I have been very struck by this painting over the last few days.  It hangs in the Farmhouse at Lox Lane Christian Centre near Shaftsbury.

My first reaction was “That’s something I could do with!”  The warm embrace of Jesus; an ordinary person being gathered up into his arms; the sense of security it conveys; the moment of wonder it implies.  Above all the simple, uncluttered love which flows out of this precious moment.

But then I thought again.  When we are feeling down, hurt, angry or confused, there are times when we push others away rather than looking to them for comfort.  There have been times in my life when I have done this with God.  I kept God at arm’s length for some time after my wife’s accident 15 years ago.  My sense of pain and bewilderment meant that the warmth of God’s embrace was the last thing I wanted.  I wasn’t sure I trusted Him anymore and a hug or a kiss would not have made it all better.

Perhaps now, as I come to terms with cancer, I don’t want to be hugged by Christ, no matter how special that would seem to be.  I am not a very touchy-feely kind of person at the best of times and, as I wrote in my last post, I am currently fighting depression as the intensity of treatment gives way to the limbo of watchful waiting.

But as I continued to look at the painting, I noticed more than simply the embrace.  I saw his hands with the mark of the nails, still red and bloody.  I saw the crown of thorns still there, biting into his head.  This is a risen Christ that still bears the scars and the pain of his crucifixion – who still bears the marks of his own death.

This is a Jesus who understands pain, sorrow and confusion.  This is the Jesus who cried out on the cross “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”  This is the Jesus who was “despised and rejected, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain” and who “bore our suffering” as he hung there.

It is this Jesus who gathers us up into his loving embrace.

So perhaps my first reaction was right after all.  I would like to feel the warm embrace of Christ afterall.  It is not an embrace which ignores the downsides of life.  It is not escapism into a world of fluffy clouds and impossible dreams.  It is the down to earth embrace of the man of sorrows, whose love brings light into the darkest places of our lives and which can melt the hardest of hearts.

The very last words of the Bible are these,

“Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.

The grace of the Lord Jesus be with God’s people.  Amen”

Perhaps today I would add –

The embrace of the Lord Jesus be with us too.  Amen

Radiotherapy, Chemo and God

So my treatment has suddenly moved up a gear.

In addition to the hormone therapy I am receiving, I start 5 days of radiotherapy later this week, and chemotherapy next month.  Like other cancer patients, I am going to have destructive beams and chemicals pumped into my body on a regular basis.  Suddenly, it has all become very real.

The hope is that these treatments will kill enough of the cancer cells to keep everything under control. 

The other hope in my life comes from prayer.  Since my last post, I have been overwhelmed by people saying they will be praying for me, and I am acutely aware that hundreds, if not thousands of people are praying for myself and Mel, Isaac and Iona.

I have to say that I have a chequered history with prayer for healing.

In my teens and twenties, I saw some remarkable answers to prayer.  I saw people healed, physically and emotionally.  I saw heroin addicts come off drugs with little or no side effects in response to prayer, when they had tried many times before and given up, because withdrawal was unbearable. 

Yet when my wife was horrifically injured in 2003 with excruciatingly painful and life threatening injuries, I sat by her hospital bed day after day for months, praying for God to ease her pain – all to no effect.

Coming on top of questions about why God let her accident happen, this daily disappointment left my prayer life scarred for years.  I became unable to reach out to others in prayer, and only began to find my own healing last year, for the scars this left on my soul.  (See ‘Healed to Pray’ for more.)    As a result of that inner healing, I have felt able to pray for others again in the way I used to.  I have not seen dramatic results, but have been aware of God moving in and through those prayers.

When it comes to praying for myself however, the block still remains.  Why would God answer prayers for me, when he wouldn’t answer my prayers for Mel?

So while I have valued all the messages of prayers from friends around the world, I have found it difficult to believe that God would answer.  My name has been added to prayer lists and candles have been lit in all kinds of Christian communities, from Pentecostal intercessory prayer groups, to Convents and Abbeys, and I am deeply grateful.  I just wish I had more faith that God would answer them.

Yet when I visited Southwark Cathedral last week, around the anniversary of my ordination there, I felt drawn to light a candle and much to my surprise, found myself simply praying “Lord, in your mercy, heal me”.

As I reflect on this, it occurs to me that I don’t know how effective my radio and chemo therapy will be, but I am still going ahead with them.  I hope they will have a beneficial outcome and extend my life, but I don’t know how much good they will do.  Similarly with prayer, I don’t know how God will answer the many prayers being offered on my behalf, but why should I be any less hopeful that they will have a positive effect?

I find myself standing alongside a man who brought his child to Jesus to heal him.  When Jesus said to him that everything is possible for one who believes, he replied, “I do believe, help my unbelief!” (Mark 9)

Not that prayer is predictable, of course.  It does not follow clearly defined rules.  It is not like a political petition, where the greater the number of signatures, the better the chance of being noticed.  In the end we are all subject to God’s will, both active and passive.

I am reading ‘Fear No Evil’ by David Watson at the moment.  It is his story of his struggle and death from cancer at the height of his ministry.  He had seen God heal many people at services he led, and hoped for God’s healing for himself, all to no avail.  John Wimber’s story is not dissimilar.  So even if there seems to be no discernible answer to prayer, I feel that I will be in good company (if a little overshadowed!).

All things considered, I am choosing to be hopeful.

Hopeful in the radio and chemo therapies I will soon be receiving, and hopeful in God for the prayers which are being prayed for me.  They are part and parcel of my treatment and I will embrace them both, with a mixture of belief and unbelief, faith and doubt, hope and realism.

So thank you to everyone who is praying for me, and if you have time, please continue to do just that.

The Enemy Within...

I never thought I would get cancer.

Arrogant of course, considering the number of people who suffer from cancer at some point in their lives – but I never thought it would be me.

There is no history of cancer in my family, as far as I am aware. My grandfather had his early adulthood stolen by the horrors of the trenches in the first world war.   He lived a hard life and smoked 40 cigarettes a day for as long as anyone can remember.  He lived until he was 82 when finally a stroke got him.

My father died just over a year ago in his eighties.  He had chronic back problems and heart disease which led to a triple bypass in his early 70’s, but it was post-operative complications which finally finished him off after major abdominal surgery at 84.

My mother developed Alzheimer’s in her early 60’s and over the years which followed she lost all recognition of the world around her, including her family, and yet she still reached her 80’s before finally giving in.

Heart disease I had expected at some point in life, Alzheimer’s I would understand, but cancer?  Never.

So it has come as somewhat of a shock, at the age of 54, to be told that I have Advanced Prostate Cancer.

I had been meaning to go the doctor for a while, as my toilet patterns gradually changed.  I started to think that something was wrong when I started to suffer fatigue – acute tiredness for no apparent reason.  When I finally went, it was after two episodes of debilitating pain in my hip and right leg.

The result of initial tests pointed to Prostate Cancer, and having now had a full suite of scans and biopsies, I know it is Advanced Pc.  For those who know about such things, my Gleason score is 9 and my PSA is in the 300’s.  It has spread to my lymph nodes and my bones.  It is beyond surgery or any other cure.  It is simply a case of ‘managing’ it now.

The irony is that, following my first course of hormone therapy, I felt fine again.  The fatigue subsided, and my hip pains had largely gone (until earlier this month).  Yet now, I know that lurking deep within, many of my cells are slowly mutating against me and there is no way to get rid of it.

Treatment is, of course, improving all the time, and Prostate Cancer UK’s website says that ‘treatments can help to keep it under control, often for several years’ but suddenly life seems different now.  The finite nature of life which we prefer not to think about, has suddenly come into sharp focus.  Long term plans, dreams and expectations suddenly seem obsolete. Retiring to the west coast of Scotland with my wife Mel, buying a RIB, and exploring the beauty of the Inner Hebrides.  All seem like folly now.

I am reminded of the story Jesus told about the successful farmer who built his barns bigger and planned to ‘take life easy’.  That very night, his life comes to an abrupt and untimely end with God’s words “You fool!” ringing in his ears. (Luke 12)

At times like this, people often re-evaluate their lives.  We ask ourselves what is really important in life?  For me, as for so many others, the two things which come to the forefront are family and faith. 

Both, of course, are inexorably intertwined. Since my first visit to the doctor, I have found my most uttered prayer to be,

“Really God? Is this really my time?  Because I don’t think it is!” 

My wife Mel is partially disabled after a road accident and in chronic pain.  For 14 years, I have been her principle carer to a greater or lesser degree.  She isn’t getting any better, and in time may well get worse.  Really God? Is this my time? 

My children at 17 and 19 and will soon be off to University.  I want to see them graduate, perhaps marry and have children.  I want to see them establish their lives and be the wonderful people I know they are, and I want to be there for them when life is not straightforward or easy.  Really God?  Is this my time?!

On the positive side, this makes me want to fight.  To be determined to be alive in several years’ time, whatever the odds may be.  Determined that I will not give up, and will take every opportunity to be there for them, for as long as I possibly can.  To be determined not to go gently into the night.

When it comes to my faith, I know what is waiting for me.  I am not afraid of death because I know what Christ has done for me. I know that one day I will stand before his throne in awe and wonder, not because of anything I have done, but because of Him who died for me and rose again.

That does not mean I don’t have my issues with God, of course.  Sometimes life just doesn’t seem fair, and Mel and I have had our fair share of those times.  Like Jacob, I sometimes wrestle with God and will not give in.  Like Job, I sometime find that God seems far away and oblivious to my petty concerns.  Like Jonah, I sometimes don’t want God anywhere near me, and yet God is there.

Putting all of those together, I press on.  Life is different now.  And I will treat each day, each month, and each year differently, as I join others in living in the paradox of life and death.