Some weeks ago while I was house sitting for friends one morning, I noticed some words they’d written on a piece of paper and stuck to their fridge. They were words first penned by Charles Spurgeon, England’s best-known preacher for most of the second half of the nineteenth century. The words struck a chord that morning and have continued to resonate with me….
“When I thought God was hard, I found it easy to sin; but when I found out that God is so kind, so good, so overflowing with compassion, I smote upon my breast to think that I could ever have rebelled against One who loved me so, and sought my good.
That love “so overflowing with compassion” has continued to be an anchor for us as we continue this journey into each week and it’s shown itself in a number of ways. Among the encouragements was a few days in London with my brother Hamish and his wife Tanya before they left on a long trip, then also a visit from Pastor Richard Zevenbergen, one of Ben and Dabi’s church leaders from Joinville, Brazil. He took time out of a busy ministry trip in Europe to fly across to UK for two nights to pray with me and spend some time. It was great. Then seven nights in Guernsey last week with old friends Phil & Sarah Baskerville, leaders within Shiloh Church on the island, was so refreshing. To spend time with them, laughing and reflecting on old times, on family life, on ministry, was a re-charge.
While we were in Guernsey, after a couple of days of feeling unwell, I called my oncologist in Exeter to ask him whether he could expedite my CT scan results from the previous week. A couple of days later, while lunching with more friends, news came from Exeter that the scan showed further tumour shrinkage and that all looked to be well – ‘disease control’. A cheer went up from the lunch table that day! If we don’t already know it, a couple of GP friends have since commented that this really is a remarkable thing with a usually impossible disease that we’re seeing. Whether by ipilimumab or prayer, or through a combination of both, something is happening.
A day visit from Guernsey to the tiny island of Herm was a highlight, especially as it marked six months to the day that Ben died. We were able to spend a few quiet moments in the ancient chapel on the island in prayer and thanks, and later on the ferry, a memorial moment in our minds as we remembered the actual time Ben left us.
Grief is such an unpredictable thing. Some days, I feel as if life is normal, other days it is not. The night before we left for Guernsey, Catherine and I, Joshua and Lydia were siting at the meal table, all laughing loudly over something. Suddenly I stopped. Catherine looked up at me. I sat, my eyes welling.
“Are you OK?
And as I started to answer, I broke down and wept, “Ben’s never going to sit round the table with us again, never going to laugh with us again here”.
I find myself weeping for what I’ve lost. Weeping for Dabi who’d found in Benjy her life-mate, the one who seemed to have found the key to her soul. Gone. For my parents, for Catherine’s parents – four grandparents who in their senior years might have hoped to enjoy a certain sense of rest and peace as they look out and survey their family. They now find life is marred by a wound of loss that will be hard to heal. I weep for Simeon, for Tom, Joshua and Lydia. No big brother Ben to share life. No easy or slick answers.
But perhaps there’s an answer of a different magnitude found in words I tripped over in part of my daily bible reading this week. Hebrews 6 says,
“…we who have fled to take hold of the hope offered to us may be greatly encouraged. We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. It enters the inner sanctuary behind the curtain, where Jesus, who went before us, has entered on our behalf”
The word ‘hope’ as it’s found in the Bible and as a good friend reminded me last Sunday night, doesn’t mean what we usually take it to mean in everyday speech where it’s generally no more than just wishful thinking eg “I hope it’s sunny tomorrow”. No, it’s a firm thing, based on firm facts and located around a real person. That person – Jesus Christ – who lived, who died, who rose again from death and was attested to by eye witnesses, takes us in behind what was once a separating curtain between us and God. And through His own body, torn and scarred on the cross, He opens up the way as both our ransom payer and mediator…but also as the eternal God. “He became what we are that we might become what He is.” (Athanasius, 296-373 ad). That without one who was God himself standing in my place, I am without hope.
The words I read from Hebrews remind us that real, lasting, secure hope – hope that can be counted on even when everything else might seem to be crumbling – is found Christ. HOPE that’s an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. Whether it’s grief over the loss of a son, tears for others, whether it’s death I face or life continuing in the body, I’ve found an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. The kind, good and compassionate God.
Though tears may come, nothing compares to the promise I have in Him.