The Essence of Grieving: Embracing Suggestions


Did you ever notice that when you get sick, everyone you know becomes a doctor?

“You need to drink lemon water every morning. And make sure it’s warm.”

“Your body is too acidic.”

“I’m taking a supplement that really helps me with that.”

“You need to drink less coffee.”

“You need to drink more coffee.”

“My aunt had the same thing, and she was bed-ridden for the last nine years of her life.”

“Have you heard about swishing?”

“Chiropractors? Bah! What do they know?”

“I’d recommend carrot juice. Make sure you buy organic carrots, though.”

“I think you’re gluten-intolerant. You need to stop eating grains.”

“Man, that sounds bad. I’d see a specialist, if I were you. The sooner, the better. It sounds like you need an MRI, and probably surgery.

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People mean well, and they want to help. So they jump into your circle of pain and speak from their own experience or that of people close to them. The process is the same with suggestions as it is with sympathy.

When we told our friends that Donna had stage 4 pancreatic cancer, their response was seismic–a tsunami of sympathy and concern. We were humbled and overwhelmed. People who loved us expressed themselves with heartfelt eloquence, and as Donna’s disease progressed, they assured us not only that they were praying for us daily, but also that they were weeping with us as they experienced vicariously the anguish of our impending separation.

Many offered suggestions–books on nutrition for chemotherapy patients; links to websites; anecdotes and advice related to the practical aspects of dealing with cancer. Some of these were helpful, and we were profoundly grateful for the love that prompted each of these gestures.

Indulge me as I rant for a minute. I know there will be medical people reading this, and I don’t want to offend you. I know practitioners who are not only exceedingly competent and well-trained, but also committed to their patients’ well-being and selfless in their devotion to them. The exception proves the rule. I am speaking in broad generalities, and my words are those of one who has experienced firsthand the sincere compassion, practiced competence, and astonishing accommodation of an enviable–albeit broken–medical care system. My observation about the medical industry in North America is that it is just that–an industry. Physicians treat symptoms. Most don’t promote wellness or practice preventative medicine, and few–by their own admission–know anything about nutrition. Despite loud crowing to the contrary, the industry seems to be searching not for cures, but for new treatments. There is a huge difference. (For instance, if a cure for cancer were found, the CEO of the American Cancer Society would have to look elsewhere for his million-bucks-a-year salary.) Sorry if I sound a little cynical. I am.

When Donna died, I expected friends to send suggestions. I was not disappointed. Along with hundreds of cards and encouraging notes, I received a number of books on grieving. A few were good. Others were predictable and generic to the point of being glib. I ordered C. S. Lewis’ A Grief Observed and read it with the same admiring fascination as I have his other works. He wrote from my spot in the circle of pain, as if standing in my shoes. He lost his wife to cancer, and found that writing about his own grief was more helpful than reading about other people’s. That’s where I am. Having said that, other books I have found helpful are, J.I. Packer’s A Grief Sanctified (his re-telling, with commentary, of English Puritan Richard Baxter’s loss of his beloved wife); I Didn’t Know What to Say, by David Knapp; and Grief Undone, by Elizabeth W.D. Groves (the book I’m reading now.) Lewis’ famous, The Problem of Pain is on my summer reading list.

Grieving, while it involves universal elements, is a profoundly personal matter. Right after my wife’s death, I contacted four men–three colleagues and a friend from Boston whom I have not seen in years–who I knew shared my space in the circle. One lost his wife to breast cancer when they were both in their twenties and had a toddler. The wife of my friend in Boston died of cancer some years ago. Another, also a young father, lost his wife suddenly and shockingly during a medical procedure–surgery, as I recall. The fourth man’s first wife also died of cancer, and Donna was instrumental in introducing him to his new bride–something that brought her great joy and satisfaction.

I asked these men to be an email support group for me, and they readily agreed. I knew I had to source my suggestions carefully, and used several criteria. I chose:

  1. Men. Women have a different outlook on life, and while as a married man I found that infuriatingly helpful, I felt I needed the perspective of my own gender this time.
  2. Christians. I wanted to hear from men who share my worldview, my love for the True God and His Word, my assurance of eternal life, and my confidence in my Heavenly Father to restore joy and purpose to my remaining days here despite my loss.
  3. Friends. I wanted men whom I knew and trusted, men who would be frank with me– not mincing words, making assumptions about my ability to cope, or glossing over important matters of which I might be unaware.

These men have helped me more than they will ever know. They have been transparent in articulating their own despair and confusion. They have been bold and candid in their exhortations to me. They have encouraged me and taught me. I am immensely grateful.

By nature, I don’t accept suggestions readily. I prefer to do my own analysis and seek my own solutions. That is not a good quality, but it is part of my fallen character. The shocking decline and death of my beloved companion of 40 years shook me to my core. I realized that to immigrate to the world of grief without the help of experienced travelers would be foolhardy. Even dangerous.

I’m grateful I didn’t try to slip across the border undetected.

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On Dirt, Grass, and Human Stupidity


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When we lived in Atlanta, a group of our Homeowners’ Association members rented an aerator one Saturday and went to town on our yards. As were were working, an Asian man–a newcomer to the USA–stopped by to watch for a few minutes.

“What are you doing?” he asked me in heavily accented English.

“We’re poking little holes in the ground so our grass will grow better,” I told him.

His mouth fell open in disbelief. “Why?” he asked.

“Sir,” I replied, “I have to tell you honestly I can’t give you a sensible answer.”

I still wouldn’t be able to.

I just spent a good bit of time and money trying to get grass to grow in my front yard. I’ll take another photo in two weeks to see it it looks any different. Here’s hopin’.

As I was tamping in the seed with my rake, I got to thinking about how ludicrous this job actually was. Talk about poor stewardship of the planet! In many other contexts, the tree would be gone, the front lawn would be a vegetable garden, and there would be a goat and a few chickens out back.

Think about it for a minute. We drive somewhere and actually buy dirt. Dirt! We spend a great deal of money and countless hours of our discretionary time growing a plant that is inedible. We spread toxic substances all over it (well, I don’t) to make it grow longer and thicker; then, we use expensive machines to cut it down so we can bag it and lug it to the curb on trash day.

And we’re an advanced culture.

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The Essence of Grieving: Embracing Sympathy


“I know how you feel. My dog died when I was eleven.”

I just read an excellent book by a man who has lost two wives, and included at the beginning of each chapter is a list of things to say or not to say to someone who is grieving. The opening sentence of this post might be on one of those lists. Can you guess which one?

Well-meaning people can say stupid things. While the loss of a pet can be traumatic and painful–it was for our family when Ebony, our beloved Labrador Retriever, was hit by a car in front of our house–it does not compare with watching one’s dearest friend and lover starve painfully to death before one’s eyes. Believe me–I know.

Sympathy. The noun comes from a Greek compound word meaning, “feeling together.” That’s what people are seeking to do when they offer us messages intended to communicate a degree of understanding of our situation when we grieve or encounter difficulty. They are seeking to include themselves in our circle of pain so we will know they care about us and want to help us bear our suffering on some level. That “circle of pain” is actually a series of concentric circles, with the smallest being composed of those people who have  experienced exactly what we are experiencing.

It is the nature of sympathy to seek to be in the smallest circle possible. For this reason, some people who mean well speak poorly. They try to imagine a personal experience as close as possible to our own, and then present it as a ticket of admission to our circle. My wife and I had fifteen years to learn how this works, starting when she was diagnosed with leukemia in April, 2000. As soon as the “C” word is mentioned, people start rummaging around for their tickets.

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I have had to learn to accept all of these tickets, no matter how wrinkled, tattered, or illegible. Even if they were tickets to a different show. If one has never lost someone close, seeking to encourage one who has is like a first visit to a foreign culture–one is likely to commit a faux pas.

When we told our friends that Donna had cancer again, the sympathy came like a flood. It was heartfelt, and people went to a lot of trouble to articulate their feelings and their support.  They started to send us money and even gift cards, assuming Donna’s sickness would impose unexpected financial strain on us. They mailed cards and Bible verses. They emailed us. They assured us of their prayers. They posted greeting-card-like photos and poems on our Facebook pages. Some of them came to visit, traveling thousands of kilometers at their own expense to weep and pray with us and help with practical needs. They did everything they could to communicate their feeling-with-ness. Throughout the process, I don’t recall anyone saying something that wasn’t appropriate. My hundreds of feeling-with-ers  continue to be a huge encouragement months after Donna’s arrival in glory. Many have never lost a spouse, so their tickets are in the upper bleachers. But they cheer with gusto, and offer kind words and helpful counsel from their own experience with God’s “marvelous, infinite, matchless grace.”

Oddly, the Greek verb, sumpatheo, “to feel with,” does not appear in the New Testament. Another word, parakaleo, “to call alongside,” “to comfort,” “to encourage,” is the verb that comes to mind when I think of the sympathy my wife and I were called to embrace during our ordeal, and which I embrace now.

All three Persons of the Trinity are said to be paracletes, or comforters. Jesus told His disciples in John 14 that because He was leaving them, and He would ask the Father to send them “another Helper, to be with [them] forever.” (JOH 14.16) This implies, of course, that Jesus was Himself a Helper (parakletos,) and the word is used of Him in 1 JOH 2.1 to describe His advocacy for the sinning believer before the throne of God. As Paul mentions in 2 COR 7.8, the Father “comforts the downhearted.”It is in God’s nature to be a comforter.

The quintessential passage related to comfort is 2 COR 1.3-5:

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For as we share abundantly in Christ’s sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too.”

As the God of all comfort, He can comfort us in all our affliction. Why? So we can “comfort those who are in any affliction.” This goes beyond “feeling with,” beyond that series of shrinking of circles. It allows us to prescribe and apply the balm of God’s own comfort– wherever it hurts, and in whichever of those circles of pain we find ourselves. Sympathy falls short in that we cannot feel with people whose experience we do not share. Comfort transcends human experience because it comes from a God whose very nature is comfort, Who understands every human emotion and experience, and whose comfort is applicable to every kind of anguish we encounter.

And He desires that we be fellow-practitioners–His interns, if you will–in the healing of the soul.

 

The Essence of Grieving: Embracing Scripture


We were in the Ottawa General Hospital waiting for the oncologist to arrive for our first scheduled consultation.

We were scared. We were about to talk with a man we’d never met about a treatment we’d never experienced for a disease we’d already encountered. We were in this together–cancer is not a private affliction–and we didn’t know exactly what to expect.

We had to wait for 25 minutes in a small, spare, empty room. We were grateful for both the privacy and the time. We talked and held hands and wept a little, but we spent most of the time reading the Scriptures together. I have the Bible on my phone, so I scrolled through psalm after psalm–some that Donna requested, some that I chose, and others at random. Just before the doctor arrived, we talked about the phenomenon of Scripture, about how remarkable it is that one can receive such comfort from black marks on a white page. The  Word of God was having its effect on our hearts in a precious and unforgettable way. We were embracing Scripture; even more importantly, Scripture was embracing us.

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Some time later, the day we received the diagnosis of stage four pancreatic cancer, a dear friend came to stay with Donna while I was in Los Angeles for a training course. When I got back at the end of the week, she asked if she could write a post on our secret Facebook page. We agreed, and she asked our friends to send us, among other things,  verses of Scripture that they thought would encourage us. Very soon, we began to receive a steady stream of index cards, some of them hand-decorated, adorned with biblical texts.  After reading and discussing them, we would put them in a box on our dining room table. Often after a meal or before bed–especially in the final weeks of Donna’s life–we would each take a half dozen or so out of the box and read them to each other, talking about the friends who had sent them, perhaps reminiscing about times we had spent with them, and allowing the sweet refreshment of the Scriptures to wash over us. I still have that box filled with Scripture verses, and will use it for some time. These passages, many of them from the Psalms, continue to bring encouragement, comfort, and the strength to take the next steps on this new path.

When Donna was diagnosed with leukemia in 2000, she was put in a UNC study group that would have enabled her to receive a bone marrow transplant at no cost. The process would have been complicated and taxing, but the physicians were optimistic. It never happened. Neither of her brothers was a suitable donor, so she was put on massive doses of Interferon instead–3 million units daily, administered by self-injection. Her body responded well to this treatment, and within two years her cancer had gone into full remission. But these were the worst two years of our lives. (I have always said that Interferon is the best-named therapy there is. It interfered with absolutely everything. On the long list of possible side effects, the only one she did not experience was hives.) Though Donna was only in her late forties–and, under normal circumstances, an extremely gregarious and optimistic woman–her treatment transformed her overnight. She heard me tell many people that it was like living with an 80-year-old mental patient. It was physically, emotionally, and spiritually draining, and it affected me nearly as much as it did her. She got to the place in 2002 where she told her oncologist that if this was the way she had to live, she didn’t want to live at all.

Early on in this process, she left our bedroom in the middle of one night just to be alone. She didn’t want to disturb me, but she suffered from insomnia and was discouraged and anxious. I heard her weeping in the living room, and got up to join her. I brought my Bible and told her she needed a massive dose of psalmacilin. (I coined this word that night to describe the Scripture therapy that would become such a vital part of our lives in the days ahead, and we have used the term many times since when we have needed the Psalms’ powerful antidote to sorrow, fear, discouragement, injustice, or uncertainty.) I held my darling in my arms and read to her for a couple of hours from the Hebrew hymnal. It was a precious night, and we spoke of it often thereafter.

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Above my kitchen sink there is a glass message board fastened to the bright yellow wall. On it is one of the last things my wife ever wrote–a verse from the Psalms that sustained her through many difficult times during the last fifteen years of her life. It sustains me now, and I have no plans to erase it any time soon–not only because I like to see something written in her elegant and familiar hand, but also because this simple truth speaks so eloquently to what I am facing in my own life.

By January of this year, Donna was very ill. After only her second chemotherapy session six weeks earlier, an abscess had appeared in her upper abdomen which resulted in a serious, painful infection that required the administration of a potent antibiotic and frequent draining by our visiting nurse. Since no chemotherapy was possible while she was fighting an infection, the tumor on her pancreas grew exponentially and the cancer spread to her liver. Donna’s appetite had disappeared–she was only able to get part of a smoothie down every day, and she was becoming increasingly emaciated. Sensing that her body was no longer able to tolerate chemotherapy even under the best of conditions (whatever they are,) her thoughts had turned to heaven. We had talked and prayed and wept together for days, and we were privately preparing ourselves for that phrase in our wedding vows that read, “…until death do us part.” Donna decided one night that she would not accept any more treatment. In the morning, she was afraid to tell me of her decision; but I had also been thinking that chemo would only postpone the inevitable–for only a short time, and in an unimaginable way. The choice between misery and glory was a surprisingly easy one to make. For her.

Together, we chose to refuse any further therapy except for pain and the management of her ascites. Tearfully, we told our children and parents of this decision, and as an extended family we began to  plan for Donna’s transition to her heavenly home. We went to the second consultation with her oncologist–just three days before the next round of chemo was to begin–prepared to tell him what we had decided. As we waited for him, Donna began to recite Psalm 23 to herself over and over in a halting voice. I joined her, and once again we wept and held hands and embraced with the passion and tenderness of 38 years together and the certainty of our impending separation. Yet, by the time the doctor arrived, we were dry-eyed and collected, and Donna was able to tell him in a steady, confident tone that she was ready to meet her Saviour and had chosen to forego medical intervention that would delay her.

I have already written about the effect Psalm 103 had on our family, and this psalm was read at both of my wife’s memorial services. I asked a friend to read Psalm 23 at her  Ottawa service and to preface it simply by saying that this was one of the first passages of Scripture she had memorized as a child and that it had brought her immense comfort during times of intense pain and anxiety. Anyone who knows this psalm understands.

No one can explain the power of the Word of God to do what it does in the heart of the believer. The Bible is not mere “black marks on a white page.” It is as it describes itself, “living and active.” (HEB 4.12, ESV) Its effect can be profound, unexpected, and immediate. A sentence can change one’s perspective forever, and alter the course of one’s life.

In my grief, as in other times of intense anguish, I don’t need to explain Scripture. I need to embrace it.

The Essence of Grieving: Embracing Steadfast Love


Hesed.

“There may be no more significant Old Testament description of how God relates to His people than this Hebrew word hesed. I argue that the best translation of this term would be “loyal love.” God loves His people genuinely, immutably, loyally. Both the love and the loyalty are, of course, tightly bound together. That is, just as one cannot love capriciously so one cannot be loyal without love. God is for His people, and will never cease to be for them.” (R.C. Sproul, Jr.)

The English Standard Version consistently translates this Hebrew word, “steadfast love.” When believers are taught to love as God loves–taught to practice the agape love of the New Testament–the focus is often on the selflessness of God’s love. It is viewed not as an emotion, although it often elicits an emotional response, but as a commitment to the good of other. The Old Testament seems to emphasize not the selflessness of God’s love, but its steadfastness.

The human love proposition is: “If you love me, you’ll…”

This is the antithesis is of agape love, as it is a self-absorbed view that makes demands based on personal desire or perceived need. We assume that those who love us will go out of their way to do what we want. When they fail to do so, we not only assume they don’t love us, but we also cease loving them–if loving is what this duplicity can be called.

The Divine love proposition is: “Because I love you, I’ll…”

This is hesed. God is love, so His love never abates despite our misunderstanding, misgivings, or misbehaviour. There are times in life when the theological reality of God’s hesed  must eclipse any expectation of its experiential reality, and the diagnosis of a ravaging disease and the subsequent loss of one’s beloved partner in life is such a time. But then, God takes that theology and transforms it into song and sunshine in the most unexpected ways.

When we learned of Donna’s cancer, I decided to memorize Psalm 103 and asked my family to memorize it with me. It became a project of our fused spirits, and I believe we were all affected by the way this divine poem puts human life in perspective so frankly and artfully–I, profoundly so. David, God’s penman, describes our earthly pilgrimage like this:

“As for man, his days are like grass; he flourishes like a flower of the field; for the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more.” PSA 103.15,16

One day life is full of joy, love, laughter, purpose, and promise. Four months later, it is over. Just like that.

Despite his in-your-face portrayal of life’s shocking brevity, David tempers his observation with a recurring reminder of God’s steadfast love–His hesed. After his opening call to his own soul to bless the Lord, he mentions that one of the reasons to do so is that Jehovah “crowns you with steadfast love and mercy.” (v. 4)

He reminds his soul that God showed Himself awesome and powerful to both Moses and to His people Israel, and then assures himself and the reader that “the LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.” (v. 8)

Our God “does not deal with us according to our sins, or repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him.”  (v. 11)

Immediately following this disconcerting comparison between our earthly life and the life of a flower, he reassures us: “But the steadfast love of the LORD is from everlasting to everlasting on those who fear him…” (v. 17)

As I have meditated upon this psalm scores of times in the last seven months (I did so again this morning) I have seen the flash of these precious chunks of hesed–the many ways God demonstrates His steadfast love to His children. It is abundant, vast, and unending. As a dear friend and colleague just now reminded me on the phone, “Theological facts are not the things that fulfill us in our times of deepest need. They are the anchor that stabilizes us,” but God uses people and practical demonstrations of His love to teach us, enrich us, and uplift us.

Embracing sovereignty gave Donna and me the assurance that God knows what He’s doing. Embracing sickness allowed us to trust Him in the darkest hour of our lives and look forward to the day when all sickness will be a long-forgotten nightmare. Steadfast love is a crown for my soul now, reminding me I am a child of the King and His love for me is infinite–just as He is.

“Bless the LORD, O my soul!”

Sooo…Who’s Responsible?


There are few experiences more annoying–even infuriating–than placing one’s confidence in somebody who proves to be irresponsible.

Little things that may not seem that important, when left undone, can become big things in a hurry. Some people go through money as if it were being administered intravenously–whether they have it or not. And even friends can keep borrowed items far longer than necessary, and then return them damaged.

King Solomon said, “Whoever sends a message by the hand of a fool cuts off his own feet and drinks violence.” (PRO 26.6) As a monarch who relied heavily on trustworthy messengers, his observation clearly comes out of his own experience.

There is a foolproof test for responsibility–faithfulness, as it is sometimes called.

There is a foolproof test for responsibility–faithfulness, as it is sometimes called. This concept was taught to us by a dear friend, Jerry Smith, many years ago. My wife and I used it as we were raising our children, and I have used it repeatedly with people I have known and served and mentored.  I have never found it to fail, and there’s a reason for that.

The test is like a three-legged stool, the seat of which might represent the character trait of faithfulness, or responsibility. Each of the tests is a leg of the stool–and remember, the tripod is the most stable structure known.

Little Things

The first test is responsibility in little things. Things that are eclipsed by the big things. Things that are mundane. Things that often go unnoticed. Things that are viewed by some as non-essential.

I already know what you’re thinking, because I thought it myself: “Wouldn’t the big things be a better test?”

Nope.

With the big things–a job interview, a doctoral thesis, a large bank deposit, a high-level competition, a take-off–one is expected to be responsible. There is a lot at stake, and not being prepared, disciplined, or meticulous would result in a life-altering failure that could affect many people.

The little things–the things that may not harm anyone or even be noticed if they are neglected–are the true test of responsibility. I used to ask our children, “If you can’t be responsible for making your bed, do you think I’m going to give you the keys to the car?” I’m convinced some of my friends have studied bookkeeping somewhere along the way.  I’ve asked myself, “If he can’t even return a book, or return it in good condition, am I going to lend him my tools, or my car, or my money?”

Being responsible in the little things demonstrates faithful character. If one is responsible in doing the things that are not noticed, one will also be responsible in doing the things that are.

Money

You knew we’d get to this one, eh? Did you know there is more written about money in the Bible than about any other topic? Surprised? You shouldn’t be. I think there are two reasons for that.

First, we need the stuff. It’s pretty tough to get through even a day without using it for something. There is absolutely nothing wrong with money, or with having it. Money itself is amoral. It’s the love for money that’s the problem.

And that brings me to the second reason the Bible has so much to say about it. In His Sermon on the Mount, Jesus remarks, “…Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (MAT 6.21) Just after he reminds Timothy that “there is great gain in godliness with contentment,” (1 TIM 6.6) Paul writes, “But those who desire to be rich fall into temptation, into a snare, into many senseless and harmful desires that plunge people into ruin and destruction. For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evils. It is through this craving that some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many pangs.” (1 TIM 6.9,10)

Take a few minutes and think about all the evils in our world that have their root in the love of money. You’ll be astounded. The Spirit knows our hearts, and He prompted Paul to make a profound observation here. It’s as true now as it was in the First Century. Maybe more so, in fact–we have a lot more to spend our money on, and we don’t even have to have it to spend it.

I am somewhat amused when financial indicators suggest that the economy is picking up because people are buying new cars again and the retail industry is healthy. Both of these industries are credit-based, so the fact that people are driving themselves farther and farther into debt is not, to me, a good economic indicator–even though it keeps people employed.

The best way to learn about someone’s priorities is to read their chequebook. Or their bank statement. How a person handles money is a very accurate test of his or degree of responsibility. Children tend to copy their parents’ spending habits. Teaching them to manage small amounts of money well in their youth will equip them to manage larger amounts well when they’re adults.

Other People’s Property

This test has so many applications it isn’t even funny. I just heard today that our city is concerned about the number of cigarette butts on the ground. This is a pet peeve of mine, and if I were a cop and saw somebody throw a butt on the ground, I’d fine him for the maximum amount for littering. Ottawa’s concern is that the toxic filters–millions of them–are steeping in rainwater and leaching into the water supply. But poison aside, did you ever stop to think that littering is a responsibility issue? I once heard about the manager of a fast food restaurant the hired teenagers during the summer. Before a scheduled interview, he would go outside and spread trash and litter around the place and then stand back and watch. If a prospective employee picked up and discarded the trash, he or she was hired upon walking in the door: “No interview necessary, son. When can you start?” This man knew the value of the third test. The ground is usually other people’s property.

In our culture, time can often be placed in the category of Other People’s Property. If I am 15 minutes late to a gathering, or to a meeting of–say,  four other people–I have stolen one hour of their collective time. If I don’t even communicate that I am going to be late, I show them that their time doesn’t really matter to me. I believe this is a failure of the third responsibility test.

Do you return things you borrow, and do you return them in as good or better condition than they were in when you got them? If you borrow a friend’s car, do you return it with a full tank? When you take your toddlers to another home and they break something or write on the wall, do you offer to make it right? These are tests of responsibility.

I remember when one’s word was viewed as gospel truth. When we sold our home in Nova Scotia in 1998 and moved to Atlanta, I got a glimpse of the difference between how things used to be and how they are now.

We had a hot-shot lawyer in Atlanta who sported a refined Southern accent, big 90’s hair, a chic designer dress, and stiletto heels as long as Pogo sticks. She occupied her own Chanel ecosystem. She passed around so many papers for us to sign, my wife and I felt like we were either at a peace treaty or the merger of two multi-nationals. In the middle of the proceedings, Ms. Lawyah crossed her legs, tossed her mane, and said in her honeyed drawl, “Now, Ah will need the bill of sa-ale for yuah house in Caaanada.”

I gave her a sheet of legal-size paper, printed front and back.

Batting her industrial strength lashes, her perfectly arced  brows raised in confusion, she asked, “Way-uh’s the rest of it?”

“That’s it,” I  replied. “We wanted to sell, and they wanted to buy. We signed here,” (I turned the paper over) “and they signed there.”

Would that it were always so easy. It’s a responsibility issue. A question of faithfulness. It used to be that people were as good as their word. Not any more. So people are always having to cover their bases in triplicate.

Where did these three foolproof tests for responsibility come from, anyway? Well, right from the mouth of Jesus Christ:

“One who is faithful in a very little is also faithful in much, and one who is dishonest in a very little is also dishonest in much. If then you have not been faithful in the unrighteous wealth, who will entrust to you the true riches? And if you have not been faithful in that which is another’s, who will give you that which is your own?”                (LUK 16.10-12

Use them yourself–in your home, your church, your school, your workplace. You’ll see that they are 100% valid, and will help you to train yourself and others in the lost grace of responsibility.

The Essence of Grieving: Embracing Sickness


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Most people don’t like to be sick.

Oh, there are those for whom “How are you?” is a question, not a greeting–a question to be answered in gruesome detail (regardless of how close to mealtime it may be,) the response buttressed with medical statistics, lists of practitioners and drugs, and perhaps the occasional offhand reference to this morning’s obituaries. We all know people for whom a clean bill of health would be cause for profound distress and precipitate a desperate quest for a second opinion.

But that’s not what this post is about.

When Donna was diagnosed with stage four metastatic pancreatic cancer in October 2015, we didn’t seek a second opinion. We assumed–and rightly so–that this disease would be difficult for a medical expert to mistake for something else. And although we prayed early on for a miracle and accepted the recommendation of chemotherapy to slow the monster’s advance, we both knew this is what would be recorded as Donna’s “cause of death.”  It was only a question of when.

I have enjoyed robust health all my life–something for which I have thanked God often. We have traveled to many places and eaten many strange things, from iguana eggs to lamb’s heads to guinea pigs, and in some unscrubbed environments. I don’t recall ever getting sick from something I ate, unless I ate too much of it. (Once, in Ecuador, our hosts asked us if we liked our chicken rare or well done. We opted for well done.)  The last time I had the flu was over 30 years ago.

There’s a downside to good health: it can make one less than sympathetic with those who don’t enjoy it. This has been true of me, though I am ashamed to confess it. I have no patience with the kind of people I described in my opening paragraph–people I view as caricatures of the truly needy. But when my darling was told she had cancer, we both had to embrace the truth.

For me, this meant not only that I would lose my wife, but also that I would be her primary caregiver during that arduous journey. I felt intense sadness for my impending loss, but I also felt unprepared for my new role. I did not know the pain my wife’s illness would cause in her body. I did not understand the emotions of a person whose earthly life is soon to end. And I did not know how to adequately meet her needs.

My ignorance was irrelevant.10320528_10152769789874515_1791706950900169756_n

Our souls groaned within us. Many times during Donna’s illness we reminded each other that we had vowed before God and several hundred friends “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance.” When I said those words in 1977, meaning them sincerely, I had no idea that I would be awakened at night by my wife’s cries of pain. That I would see her abdomen distend grotesquely with fluid as she slowly starved to death. That I would watch the final feeble rising of her chest in a time when we were enjoying life immensely. That I would bid “so long” to a mere husk of the woman who just four months before had been beautiful, vivacious, mischievous, energetic, and a delight and inspiration to everyone who knew her.

But I knew that if I was to embrace God’s sovereignty, I also had to embrace Donna’s sickness. We embraced it together. Donna’s sunny disposition and indomitable spirit sometimes made it hard to remember that she was dying. Up until she lapsed into a drug-induced coma three days before her homegoing, she was laughing and cracking jokes. One night, as we were arranging ourselves on the double recliner where we slept together for her last few weeks, I rubbed against the PICC line in her arm (the catheter used for administering drugs) and she said, “Careful, buddy–don’t pull that out, or they’ll think you knocked me off.” I’ll never forget it. Just days before meeting her Saviour, with the weight of her impending death heavy upon her frail shoulders, she could still face her situation with the confidence and humour that endeared her to us.

Donna’s illness gave me a reason to serve her in ways I had never had to before. I did all the household tasks, except when our children came and pretty much took over the place so I could spend as much time with their mom as possible. I prepared her ubiquitous high-calorie smoothies and filled her water bottle. I woke her up twice a night for her morphine. I went to the pharmacy for her drugs and the other assorted items she needed. I prearranged all of her medications for the following day and night in a caddie I had labeled for that purpose. I gave her injections. I recorded all of her doses, meals, and medical events in the binder our daughter-in-law had designed for us. I arranged the cartons of equipment and supplies before the daily nurse’s visits. I helped her in and out of her chair and took her to the washroom. I read to her and played the music she requested. And as much as I hated the reason for doing all these things, each task gave me immense joy because I was able to serve the precious woman I loved and the Saviour Who allowed me to love her, enabled her to love me, and loved us both with a steadfast love neither of us could begin to comprehend.

I cannot accept the ideas that faithful believers will never get sick or that Jesus’ death  provides physical healing. I believe these convictions are based on faulty hermeneutics, and have been proven false countless times as godly, faithful saints of God have been struck with disease and have, in some cases, lived for decades with chronic pain before going to meet their Saviour.

One of our most treasured passages of Scripture since Donna’s first cancer diagnosis in 2000 has been Romans 8. Paul’s words are especially poignant when one is staring death in the face:

“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed in us.” (ROM 8.18)

The Apostle goes on to explain that groaning–the desperate, anguished cry of the soul–is common to humanity. The universe itself groans in a mysterious way under the weight of sin’s horrific consequences:

“For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait for the adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.” (ROM 8.22,23)

The encouraging thing is that God Himself groans with us.

“Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.” (ROM 8.26)

Even when I struggle to articulate the turmoil inside, when I can’t classify or quantify the wave of emotion crashing over me, even when I don’t want to pray because my soul is dumbstruck with shock or disbelief (all very real experiences for me now) the Spirit who occupies my pitiful heart presents my case before the throne of God in a manner so profound and impassioned that it defies verbal expression.

Paul ends this astonishing chapter with the truth that enables the believer to embrace something as horrible as pancreatic cancer and face its inevitable outcome with confidence:

“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword?…No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all [the groaning] creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (ROM 8.35, 37-39)

Who am I to argue with that?