Jeremy…husband of Catherine, father of Ben, Simeon, Tom, Joshua & Lydia. Up until the end of April 2015, he was pastor/vicar of a group of churches on the edge of Exeter in Devon, UK. In early October 2014, aged 48, he was diagnosed with advanced cancer, a stage four malignant melanoma presenting as a tumour on his lungs. The usual life expectancy is 8-12 months. Then, in late December 2014, 23 year old Ben suffered a seizure. After prolonged medical care for what was most likely to have been a viral infection affecting his brain, Ben died in April 2015. Jeremy has up until recently seemed to have responded well to pioneering immunotherapy treatments that can extend life, but from September 2016 is now facing the fresh development of brain tumours and potentially now just months to live. On January 27th 2017 Jeremy took his last breath and went to be his Lord and Saviour. The family share their thoughts, feelings and reflections as they taJeremy…husband of Catherine, father of Ben, Simeon, Tom, Joshua & Lydia. Up until the end of April 2015, he was pastor/vicar of a group of churches on the edge of Exeter in Devon, UK. In early October 2014, aged 48, he was diagnosed with advanced cancer, a stage four malignant melanoma presenting as a tumour on his lungs. The usual life expectancy is 8-12 months. Then, in late December 2014, 23 year old Ben suffered a seizure. After prolonged medical care for what was most likely to have been a viral infection affecting his brain, Ben died in April 2015. Jeremy has up until recently seemed to have responded well to pioneering immunotherapy treatments that can extend life, but from September 2016 is now facing the fresh development of brain tumours and potentially now just months to live. On January 27th 2017 Jeremy took his last breath and went to be with his Lord and Saviour. The family share their thoughts, feelings and reflections as they take this painful and unexpected journey.

Posts tagged ‘cancer’

“We are family…”

the-waltonsI sometimes find myself quietly chuckling each time I start to write a fresh blog post, as, for some reason when I’m looking for a way into the first sentence, I easily hear the voice of John-Boy from my favourite childhood TV show, The Waltons. His gentle tone – in reality it was the show’s creator Earl Hamner – providing the opening narration to each episode depicting his memoirs of early family life, seems to have left an impression on me, giving me a sense of tone, pace and pitch as I start each time to write and describe life, not on Walton’s mountain, but in the familiar yet still strange land we as a family inhabit.

But this last ten days it’s been the Waltons come to life around here as my parents, Trish and Nick, my sisters Anna and Julia, and brother Hamish, then later joined by my brother-in-law Simon, have all arrived in from either Christchurch NZ, Melbourne or Vancouver. And that was preceded two weeks before by my other brother-in-law Kelvin coming for a few days from Melbourne to spend some time with me. At one point during last week, if you were here, you would have heard, “Good night, John-Boy”, “Good night, Mary-Ellen”…well, if you know the show, you’ll know the patter. 


We had a good time together, with Ma and Pa now staying on for a few weeks. But we all knew why we’d come together, even though we’d done it before shortly after my diagnosis two years ago when we thought I only had a very short time to go, not realising how amazing an effect the new immunotherapy drugs would have in that first year, to say nothing of the chorus of prayer.   

line-in-the-sandThis time however, we’ve all sensed that there’s been this fresh line in the sand drawn with not only my brain tumours, but also the increasing appearance of more and more small melanoma tumours just under my skin all over the front of my torso and the fresh increase of the tumour on my neck, all indicators of drug’s lessening effect. That, combined with a conversation Catherine had with a friend very experienced in palliative care, was sobering but really helpful. She indicated that while I seem relatively active and well, she has witnessed some like me suddenly decline rapidly within even a week.

So, rather than dancing round the ‘elephant in the room’ while we were all here in Exeter together, we gathered intentionally on Wednesday morning then again after our meal on Saturday evening to talk about what is going on for each of us as we confront and work through the strong possibility – as painful for us all as that is, including me for them – of my death in the next few months. It was a truly precious time of sharing and being together, enabling me also to say and share something of what I needed them all to know in the clearest terms – that if they were worried for me, they needn’t be as I was feeling so utterly peaceful for myself in the middle of it all, knowing that I have a Saviour who’s taken care of death, beaten it and that I was so aware of His hand on me, and so therefore on all of us, as we walk on. As well, my passion and love for all that the Bible describes of Heaven and my excitement in anticipating it, were as pronounced as ever.

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In Looe, Cornwall

So, these times of sharing and being together, along with some great days out – to Looe, to Bath and over to Moorlands College and Christchurch, Dorset – allowed Catherine and Lydia to have a good half term break, and allowed us all to create some precious memories together.

Catherine and I were also blessed to attend a weekend away near Daventry in mid-October with the amazing Care for the Family’s Bereaved Parents Support network. We approached the weekend not sure how it would feel as, to some extent, with the recent news on my cancer spread we realised that we’d subconsciously ‘parked’ our ongoing grief for Ben to one side as we were dealing with our latest news. But going along, helped us reconnect and, I suppose, reintegrate those things as we spent some time with other parents. Truth to tell, it was a weekend with painful depths to confront, but gave much at which to smile, and be both still and thankful.

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My hair has been gone for over three weeks. I asked friends on Facebook to decide who I now most resembled – Spike Milligan’s ‘Bald Twit Lion”, Kojak, Sir Patrick Stewart or Walter White? The vote came back for Walter White (although, for those who know the series he’s from, I’m stating clearly I’m cooking nothing stronger than sushi in my kitchen)

I’ve been so encouraged by a number of old friends who’ve travelled both from near and far away to see us in recent weeks. They’ve encouraged us and reminded us that we’ve been placed in an amazing family called the body of Christ. Each visit and times spent also with local friends have been heartening and uplifting. Two conversations rate particular mention, both with longstanding friends – Chris Edmondson and Jonny Elvin. Within both, we spoke about God’s grace. At times, to my natural mind, it seems so far fetched – so amazing – that Christ has done all we need as we face life and eternity. My head sometimes says, how so?  No good works to earn it? No ‘something else’ to top it up to be forgiven, to be in a right relationship with God ? No heavenly brownie points to gain to be safe and secure with God through life and beyond death? No, no, and no. It’s ‘simply’ repent and believe in Christ who died for you. As I spoke with both about it, I simply said, “Tell me it’s really true”. “It’s true”, both said. Amazing grace. It’s the one thing that truly breaks the old rule that says, “if somethings sounds too good to be true, it probably is”.  Not this one.

We’ve also had so much love and care from our local community group at Grace Church with meals, accommodation, lifts and other practical help, which has been immense. One night, the guys from my blokes group, seeing it was a full moon, decided to head up onto Dartmoor, to Hound Tor, where we stayed sheltering next to the Tor, in the dark for an hour or two, having a laugh, sharing communion in the moonlight, praying for each other, worshipping and taking in the vast landscape of Devon in front of us, lit by the moon above and the lights of the villages and towns in the distance.

But among all these activities, Simeon, still on crutches, sat and passed his car driving test. Crazy determination.

Well, as I face my next dose of pembrolizumab (aka Keytruda) this Friday, I’m conscious that the time may be closer when the drug may be withdrawn if it seems it’s still having no effect. In the meantime, I’m starting to feel the effects of some surface tumours, becoming quite sensitive and tender. I’m also finding I’m needing to marshal my speech occasionally  –  the free flow of words isn’t what it was. The decision about the drug won’t be until we get the result of my next scan due in a couple of weeks. Because of that possibility, I’ve felt that it’s been worth asking whether I should be applying to join in any available drug trials for new release medications. That’ll be a conversation taking place over the next week or so.

In the meantime, in my ongoing daily Bible reading, I found some fresh encouragement from the Old Testament book of Habakkuk. I once heard a seasoned older preacher saying how important it was to make sure you knew at least something of the main message of each book in the Bible, even some of the more obscure ones, like Habakkuk. He said, “Wouldn’t it be awkward, if you were in heaven, and Habakkuk came up to you and asked, “So, how did you enjoy my book?” Wouldn’t it then be just so awkward having to spend eternity trying to avoid him?!

habakkukIt’s a short book written in the late 7th century BC mainly containing a conversation between God and the prophet Habakkuk regarding Habakkuk’s real disturbance about his nation, about all the unchecked violence, injustices and empty religion he was seeing – things that were happening which seemed so appalling. The conversation develops over the three chapters. And God lays out before Habakkuk what he’s planning on doing. Nothing ever catches Him out or is beyond his ability to sort.

But as this short, three chapter book comes to an end, Habakkuk simply says this –

Though the fig-tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the sheepfold and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Saviour. The Sovereign Lord is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to tread on the heights. (Habakkuk 3)

It’s really encouraged me, again. The preceding part of book is pretty stark – life will have hassle. Problems come, and problems can remain. The fig tree might not bud, money’s tight, health packs up, friends might let you or I down, dreams we’ve had may be lying in pieces at our feet – or at least they’ve never delivered what we hoped they would. The list can go on.

The world around us looks for ways of taking the problems away, but Father God so often allows that those problems stay and uses them to develop character in us and discover more gold in our relationship with Him. In fact, Jesus says,

‘I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.’ (John 16:33).

That’s a promise we can bank on because He, the Sovereign God, is so much bigger than anything we face. If we can hold onto Christ despite what is happening, Habakkuk describes that we can even be joyful in the face of sufferings and problems…the one who can know an inner strength from God despite what’s happening. We can do it because we know that with Christ in us…the best is yet to come.   

Head and heart

rainbow-in-the-rain-2From time to time, some people coming within our family circle find our use of graveyard or black humour quite bizarre, before they key into it and understand that it’s been an essential part of walking through these last two years; that facing all that’s happened with confidence, punctuated with agony, but facing it with Christ means that the very worse that life throws at any of us, is far in excess trumped by Him. So when one of our children, commenting on the blue disability parking badge, bus pass, motability and various government helps that have been offered, said, “Dad, having cancer’s great…you should have got it years ago!”, we all smiled.

Or when a friend asked me for some advice on some matter a couple of weeks ago, and I replied, straight faced, “Sorry, but I’m only dealing in end of life advice at the moment”, he looked perplexed, then after a moment smiled, “Oh, you and your humour!”  We laughed. 

knowing-godBut I’m so aware that it’s with a real degree of equanimity and peace that I continue to face it all. And as I quiz myself and ask ‘why?’, my only answer is that it’s almost entirely due to Christ and the effect of knowing Him. There was one point in His ministry where He’d just given some very hard teaching which made many among the much wider group of disciples and followers (apparently numbering into the hundreds) grumble and which even offended them. It’s described how many of them simply turned away and stopped following.

But that’s Jesus. He doesn’t shrink back from saying things we need to hear, from speaking truth to us, about both us and Himself that might offend us; he even at times brings things into our lives that might be uncomfortable, even painful. It’s all for our ultimate best, comfort, growth…and His glory. So easily though we want to domesticate and tame Him and turn Him into some kind of equivalent to a polite English gentleman and in doing so, create God in our own image.

But on that day when so many turned away from following, Jesus turned to the disciples and said,

“You do not want to leave too, do you?” Jesus asked the Twelve.

Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and to know that you are the Holy One of God.” (John 6)

I suppose that’s where I’ve found myself too over these times, and afresh in the face of the news about my brain tumours, the increase in signs of disease around my body and the time frames my oncologist has given. The thought that there are now these tumours apparently multiplying in my body’s control centre is something that I always thought would be a source of huge anxiety and fear. But it’s strangely not been – more like reflection, calm and peace. I guess it’s because I know nowhere – no, more than that – I know No-One else to whom I can go except the same Jesus who asked the disciples that question that day. I don’t feel myself to be inspirational – only just “one beggar showing another beggar where to find bread”. Like Simon Peter, there’s no one else I know to whom I can go. It all feels to me like a ‘no brainer’…here’s God come down, long predicted from 1000s of years before that He would come, born in human form, who walked our walk, who stood nails-and-thornsin our shoes, who took my place of punishment for all my muck and sin that separates me from knowing God and, in love for me and us, died in our place – a great exchange, God’s life for mine, for ours – died, dead. And then to prove He’s conquered it and sin’s consequence, rose again from beyond death to prove it and to ever live and reign, inviting us to hitch our wagon to His, to bind ourselves to Him through repentance and faith, to truly know Him then as we experience His Spirit come live in us, giving us a new life and way…and into eternity. Unique. No one else like Him. As Peter said,

“To whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

So it’s peace and joy for the believer. I can just nod my head in agreement with St Paul in the New Testament and say with him,

“To live is Christ, and to die is gain”  Philippians 1:21

valley-of-shadowBut as many will know, reading my writing over these two years, the rub comes though when I, as ever, see and think about Catherine, Simeon, Tom, Joshua, Lydia, Ma and Pa, my sisters, brother and ….well, the list ripples out to precious other family and friends. The timing jars with my human sensibilities. We cry together, we talk, we share pain. But I’ve also found myself getting to the point regularly where I’ve said to myself, to Catherine and each of the children, that if Jesus is good and great enough to have beaten death and is strong enough to carry me safely over the threshold into the wonderfully described eternity that the Bible details, then He’s good, great and strong enough to carry them. To carry them through the dark valley of Psalm 23 we’re all anticipating…but also back out again, implied in the use of the word ‘through’, into the light. It doesn’t mean they’ll be smiling and happy within a short time…they are going to need more love, practical care, nurture and support than I can imagine (and I mention it here deliberately)…it’ll be a major rebuilding, which even now I pray into, often with moist eyes. That it’s such a regular part of Catherine and my pillow talk, I can’t tell you. Agony and anguish seeking to lay its head down each night onto peace.

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(Click to enlarge) I’ve mentioned the humour. We had some fun with my now discarded radiotherapy mask, thinking there was a certain resemblance to Edvard Munch’s painting ‘The Scream’, don’t you think?  And then I found it dressed up in the hall.

Last week’s five sessions of daily radiotherapy have brought that part of my treatment to a close. It was good going into it having had some re-assuring prayer times with both the guys from Grace Church one evening in the context of a living room communion and then a number of city church leaders who gathered in our garden with some anointing oil to again ‘lay on hands’ and pray for the effects of what could potentially do some damage. But arriving for my first session last Monday and then for the next four days, being screwed fast to the table, held down by my specially moulded head mask under the machine, was a strangely relaxing experience as the amazing machine using what is now a hundred year old X-ray technology (but a hundred times the strength and powered by the latest technology) passed around my head, irradiating my brain on both sides. The only sensations were bright lights coming at me (“Stay away from the bright lights”, good friend, Marc, commented later!) and then purple ones into my peripheral vision. It turns out that the purple is more likely to have been the effect of the X-ray on my optic nerve. It’s a strange thing to know that it’s acted inside my brain, but I felt nothing and still don’t, apart from a slightly red face and warm head. The fuller effect is expected to visit in the next few days and weeks as possible hair loss, discomfort, memory loss and difficulty concentrating. We now wait to see if the intended effect of it all – ‘re-setting’ the brain’s gatekeeping ability to keep the admittedly increasingly ineffective pembrolizumab/keytruda drug out –  will work. My routine drug infusion continues every three weeks until it may get to the point where it’s plainly doing nothing. That decision and moment be a line in the sand, a bump in the road, we’re having to talk about, not knowing how that will feel. In the meantime, as James Grier arrived at the hospital for my last infusion ten days ago, I laid my hand on the drug line as James, Tim and I prayed that, if Father would cause it, it would prove to be an effective dose. 

img_4106Meanwhile, so many have been regularly asking about Simeon and his broken pelvis after his motorbike accident. He’s doing pretty well, but remaining off his feet for eight weeks, getting bored and feeling cooped up in his – thankfully – single level, ground floor flat, with his motorbikes temptingly visible outside his window but frustratingly unable to be ridden. To help, hilariously he’s managed to buy a cheap mobility scooter to get down to the shops. He thinks it’s pretty fun and it’s given him some freedom…even though it’s something of a comedown from a fast 636cc Kawasaki road bike.

Such a gift it was to spend wonderful time with long term precious friends as Robyn & Peter Thew from NZ, Jo McNamara, Ben’s godmother from Australia came Version 2and then Rob and Di Shimwell – Rob, a former colleague – over a meal and evening. As wonderfully encouraging too and a proud time it was to watch Tom complete in the Cardiff Half Marathon on Sunday and then to help deliver Joshua over to Moorlands College near Christchurch in Dorset yesterday to start his degree in applied theology. Catherine, Lydia, Joshua and I had a special time of prayer on our bed the night before he left and committed him to the Lord as he steps into his next chapter of his life. Tim and Kathryn, staying here with us from NZ for the last four weeks, serving and assisting us so quietly and carefully, leave us this weekend and will be so missed. It’s been a gift having them share our home and journey.    

My prayer for so many people I try to lift before Father each day has been shaped by words I read again recently from Paul in Ephesians, chapter one, that God would,

“…give you a Spirit of wisdom and revelation so that you may know Him better” 

Seems a good way to pray for myself, for us, for others. 

“Drop Thy Still Dews of Quietness….”

img_0027There’s a curious blend of increasing inertia and yet deepening quietness that’s coalescing inside me at the moment. On the one hand, I’m so conscious of numbers of important and mainly family related things that I’m needing to do, one by one. It’s partly and largely spurred on by the five consecutive days of radiotherapy starting next Monday, 26th September. I’m aware that my cognitive functions, including concentration and memory, will likely be effected by it. There may also be some collateral damage caused to the wider area as the beam can’t be focussed too narrowly…a point for prayer. 

Consequently, a number of things lay at the front of my mind to sort.

But at the same time, aware that the cancer, particularly the tumours in my brain, seem to be progressing, I’m finding myself just more than ever, pressing into God – resting back into Christ – more and more “drawing deeper from the wells of salvation” and the resources He’s wonderfully provided for all who come to Him, remembering Jesus words, so familiar to so many…

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.

Last week, though, had some tough reckonings to deal with. On Wednesday, Simeon had a reasonably serious motorbike accident and broke his pelvis, as well as pretty much writing off his bike. He’s now out of hospital and back at his flat with good friends tending to him, but he’ll be incapacitated for 6-8 weeks. His beloved, reasonably new, bike was only insured third party, so he’s pretty devastated.

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Jeremy having the head restraint mould taken

Then, the following day, I was measured up for the head mask/restraint that I’ll wear during the radiotherapy next week. While there, I managed to spend some time with Andy Goodman, my oncologist. It was one of those sessions where I needed to ask him some straight questions, and Andy, so helpfully and carefully sat with me. My main question was time. Now that the tumours have reached my brain, what, from his experience is the likely time left? His very gentle responses…with no radiotherapy, maybe three months. With radiotherapy hoping for palliative effects, six months. If, though, the radiotherapy has the effect of bump starting the brain into taking the pembrolizumab (aka keytruda) on board, who knows. But I got Andy to reconfirm that he’s seeing that the drug is showing signs of becoming less effective around my body, so it’s therefore unlikely to have any effects in my head.

I guess, from the previous week’s news, I knew it already, but the sobering nature of the specifics of the timings, hit me again. It was a somewhat surreal experience then to walk from the Oncology Department into the Trauma & Orthopaedic Ward to see Simeon – to walk into his situation with my information. Strangely though, his has proved to be a useful distraction to allow mine to slowly sink in.

That night, as Catherine arrived home from the sanctuary that school is for her, we sat and talked it all through. The tears for both of us flowed. And then, later in the evening, I rang my sweet sister Anna in New Zealand and, again, with emotions fully exposed, shared it with her. I needed her to go round to Ma and Pa’s to tell them face to face. Phone, FaceTime or Skype wouldn’t do. That was for the next day.

And so here…here I am. Here we are. I’m feeling – more or less – as well as ever. In a bizarre new twist, I’m going off to the local gym five days a week for an hour. It feels great for this one who, to quote my late best man, Nigel Clarke, in his speech at my wedding,

“At school, Jeremy had the most amazing ability to avoid any form of physical exertion whatsoever”

Young plant

But all the while, I’m conscious – and more than ever – that I’m living with a reality that is drawing in. But in that reality there are possibilities that I don’t dismiss or ignore. Pressing into Christ, on those many promises He’s made to those who love and trust Him, provides Hope (capitalised deliberately) of the fullest kind. I’ve been stirred constantly by the Old Testament story of King Hezekiah from Isaiah 36 & 37. I won’t tell the whole story here (but if you click here you can read it) but suffice to say it tells of a major threat of disaster he, as King of Judah in Jerusalem, received from the marauding Assyrian emperor, Sennacherib. It’s initially verbal. But Hezekiah, after an initial grief reaction, tearing his clothes, seeks God, and receives through the prophet Isaiah, God’s stirring, strengthening response. By the time then a written threat arrives from Sennacherib, Hezekiah is calmed and ready. He walks into the temple, spreads the letter out before God and effectively says, “You, Lord Almighty are God, maker of everything, and over everything and are the only God, and God over all. See what this man is saying, insulting. You’re God, not him. Over to you” . St Paul writes that one of the reasons that Old Testament events were written down was that they were to serve as examples and warnings for us. And as the account of Hezekiah runs on, it’s spine tingling, and has provided me with such encouragement as to what God has done, what He can do, but more than that, who He is in the face of any danger, threat or loss for any of us. It’s not necessarily promising me deliverance from this cancer, but it is reminding me that something – Someone – else has the final word. And that Someone was the same One who stood in full glory after His resurrection from the dead and said,

“Do not be afraid. I am the First and the Last. I am the Living One; I was dead, and now look, I am alive for ever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades.”

Of course, it’s the Lord Jesus Christ. The final Word.   

As life moves along each day, He’s giving us a ‘normality’ and peace. It’s been great having Tim & Kathryn Handley with us from New Zealand, both here as journeying friends, and acting as my driver and our help around the home. We returned Tom to Cardiff for his final year last week and Lydia heads off to her college placement at a local children’s nursery each day. Joshua prepares to head off to Moorlands Bible College in a couple of weeks…do please read the new piece he’s written on the column alongside this one. It so encouraged me.

All the while, I find myself both drawn and drawing deeper, during the day (sometimes in the early morning hours, lying in bed) in prayer, in worship, seeking to deliberately “practise His presence”, as things move on.

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you”

And He is.

   

Milestone, curls and fresh challenges

I’ve just arrived home for the second time today from the oncology department. Once for a clinic and once for my fifth infusion of pembrolizumab. It’s a world of which I used to know nothing, but is now such a regular part of my life that I can know and laugh with many of the staff, and many of the department patient routines feel so familiar to me. I saw Dr Ayman Nassar for the last time this morning in clinic before he moves away to take to up his new immunotherapy research post. It was good to be able to thank him for his expertise as well as his very particular care and companionship on this journey…he will be missed.

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Out for my 50th with all the family (click to enlarge)

It’s been a quiet couple of months in terms of needing to post updates – something of a good sign with melanoma which, as many will know, can move with a rampancy and offer, as my oncologist said early on to me, a normal life expectancy of 8-10 months from diagnosis. To have been able to have celebrated my 50th birthday last month – something which 22 months ago was an impossible milestone to have considered – felt good.      

This morning, I received the results from a PET scan I had last week. They contained both positives and some possible causes of concern. The radiologist summary report refers to “disease progression”. Some of the existing small tumours under my skin, whilst they haven’t grown, are showing some signs of fresh metabolic activity and there are also fresh small tumours – some I’ve been aware of on my torso –  but all, it seems, are either just under the skin or in non-threatening places inside. There’s also a possible one in the bone of my skull for which an MRI scan has been ordered. Ayman assured me that it is a satisfactory result and one which falls within reasonable and expected parameters for response to pembrolizumab at this early stage in having it.

Rachel & MikeI think, having felt fresh lumps in the last little while, Catherine and I thought there might be some things for us to deal with. I think we realise that it’s always a possibility and it’s been freshly sobering. Then the death of Rachel Partridge, wife of my (until-recently) colleague Mike Partridge, two weeks ago had a similar effect and reminded us of what we’re facing. Both she with her leukaemia and me with my melanoma, jokingly referred to each other as “tumour buddies”…she was a special lady and one whose journey through her illness touched many people. She’ll be missed, not the least by Mike and their children – Felicity, Will, Ellie, Bethany and Hannah. 

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Lydia, me and my curly hair

My reaction to the pembrolizumab, in terms of side effects, continues to be negligible. Apart from the now-not- so-regular bouts of extreme fatigue, a funnier one has been that it turned my hair curly with no warning and without it having to fall out. It caused no small amount of hilarity in the family, Catherine loved the new look. I’ve since had my hair cut very short, and that was only a few weeks after I lost my beard of 20 months also.   

The lessening of the fatigue has allowed a month or so of fun in the family with the great summer weather. With it being my 50th, it was wonderful to have my parents and brother from NZ and Canada respectively there for it. Catherine and I were able to have a big joint 50th party at home with many old and local friends; Ma, Pa, Catherine (sometimes) and I were able to enjoy some great trips to Cornwall and London…but we also went sailing across Torbay and beyond with old friends Steve and Liz. We’ve watched Simeon ride in the off-road Enduro motocross event on his KTM motorbike, see Josh perform at a public event in Honiton as well as him and I go to the Goodwood Festival of Speed in West Sussex. I was able to accompany Tom to his placement in London at the Centre for Social Justice, as well as us spend time with old friends from the distant past either at home or away. Among some of our walks and visits, Catherine and I visited the National Trust’s Coleton Fishacre in south Devon, the old Coleton Fishacre‘Art Deco’ style home of the D’Oyly Carte family of the opera and Gilbert & Sullivan fame. We’d been there with the children twice many years ago and I had many clear memories. But it proved to be yet another unexpected ‘tripwire’ grief moment for me. It was a combination of discovering that the D’Oyly Cartes had lost their 21yr old son in 1932 in a road accident, and walking in the garden knowing it had been a place of huge grief and suddenly seeing places Ben had been and a spot where we’ve taken a family photograph in 2000 that saw me so utterly undone and tears for both of us flowing in a fresh wave. It was right…it had to happen, it was all part of the grief that’s working it’s way through, inside and out, round and about. I felt better for it. But there’s no time limit to it and to when it can strike.

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In those times over the last few months when I don’t find prayer comes too easily – either through my own lack of words, I’m grateful for the daily “Bible-in-a-Year” reading Bible in a yearapp on my phone which can take me to a place where I see not only the utterly amazing characteristics of God – each day with a psalm, an Old Testament and a New Testament reading, I can see His holiness, His faithfulness, His love – that I can pause and use them in even a brief prayer back to Him in thanks, or a time of quiet worship for who He continues to be there for me, for us, no matter what I might see.

Bible promisesI continue to “wrap up” those things – people or situations where we long to see change – within the character and promises of God. I had a fresh reminder about it last Sunday at church when Mick Taylor from Citygate Church in Bournemouth (listen to the whole thing here) helped us consider Abraham in Genesis 18 as a pattern of how we can do that. We considered particularly when God shares with Abraham that he is planning on destroying the appalling wicked cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. God was under no obligation to tell Abraham about this, but He appears to do so to prompt Abraham to engage with Him. Abraham hesitatingly, yet boldly requests God to consider not destroying it if he finds 50 righteous people there, and Abraham concludes his request saying, “Will not the judge of all the earth do right?” In other words, Abraham was appealing to God’s own righteous and good character to do what is right. And God agrees with him to relent if he finds 50. But Abraham boldly pushes on to 45, 30, 20, 10 people in the cities. It’s about a degree of boldness and taking seriously what we come to understand of God’s character as we read of it in action in the Bible. So, for us today, an example might be for us praying for a friend, family member, or a former church member, who has walked away from God for whatever reason. We can (knowing the Lord Jesus Christ who describes himself in the New Testament as the good shepherd and who leaves the ninety-nine sheep and goes in search of the missing one) wrap up your concern for the person or situation in the character and promise of God and bring it to Him in prayer. “Lord, I can’t easily bring them back, but you, good shepherd, have promised to do just that. Please Lord, go after him/her… please do that”    

“Will not the the Judge of the earth do right?”

…I have continued to use that line over the last year or two as I pray regarding this disease in my body and where it might lead, considering Catherine, my children, my parents. Trouble is, we don’t always know what ‘right’ is. Sometimes it’s “Yes”, sometimes “no’, sometimes “wait”. But whatever, I remain peaceful in my situation for whatever outcome. If Christ can have beaten our ultimate enemy – death – and can usher me into His wonderful eternity, He is more than strong enough to look after and meet with my precious ones left behind me. But I pray on, sensing to remain for the time being might be best…

Bad news and good news

Stormy sea and lighthouseAs Catherine and I went to bed last night, we did so with a feeling of increasingly heavy hearts and needing a renewed sense of peace.

It all started last Monday. Just as we were arriving to stay with old friends Shaun and Helene in Bedfordshire for the week, I became aware that a small lump on my neck, above my larynx and present for some weeks, felt bigger and certainly more tender. After a late night trip to Bedford hospital A&E, and then an emergency ENT appointment the following day, immediate concerns were allayed as the consultant felt it was no more than an epiglottal cyst, unrelated to the cancer. To be safe however, after a phone call to the Exeter Oncology Department, I was booked in for both an ultrasound and oncology appointment upon our return. Those appointments took place yesterday.

It’s both bad news and good news.

The bad news is that the ultrasound indicated that the mass on my neck is suspicious and not a cyst. There’s also further evidence of one or two other small melanoma deposits in my lower neck.

Cancelled Stamp

The good news is that consequently, the surgery planned for today was then, late yesterday afternoon, cancelled. It was felt to be a pointless exercise cutting bits and pieces out when it seems the melanoma is on the move again and that more cancer deposits might just show up in other places in weeks to come.
So, the next step is that I am being put onto ipilumumab’s successor, pembrolizumab, starting within the next 2-3 weeks. It’s a new drug, only just licensed for first line usage within the NHS and is having even more startling effects than ipi. It involves an infusion every three weeks for the foreseeable future.
I’m also being sent for a full body PET scan in Taunton within the next two weeks.We’re familiar with this as Ben had one. It is THE most thorough metabolic scan one can have, and will give the medics a complete picture of what’s what and what’s emerging.

As I arrived home from the hospital last evening, phone calls to the children and our families followed. I think everyone has responded along the lines, “Hhhmmm…OK…right…not bad, but not good”.

rollercoasterTwelve hours after the news, we’re feeling both delicate and as if we’re on a new roller coaster ride. Having braced for surgery and its aftermath, we’re relieved in one way that it’s not happening. But the implications of my melanoma being on the march again, particularly as it involves neck and potentially head, especially tumours…that’s a different story.
An inner journey carries on and once again we find ourselves afresh before the Throne of Grace. As Catherine left to teach the first day of the new term this morning, understandably anxious, I sat up in bed, cup of tea in hand, to read my “Bible in a Year” selection. Psalm 4 was among the readings. I listened and read along as David Suchet read it (click here to hear it). But as I quietly read it again myself, the Word started to do it’s work once more as Jesus drew alongside.

Stirred…but not shaken

Brooklyn_Museum_-_The_Tower_of_Siloam_(Le_tour_de_Siloë)_-_James_Tissot

A good friend of mine from Exeter was away this last weekend, speaking at a church in another corner of the country. As Dave and I were talking then praying together about it last week, we touched on the bible passage he was to be speaking on, one from Luke 13. It refers to a tragedy that had taken place in Siloam. A tower had collapsed killing eighteen people. There was no apparent rhyme nor reason to it, and despite people seemingly wanting to explain it by pinning blame on the victims as if they had somehow done something to deserve it, Jesus counters it with a clear, “I tell you, no!”. And now, just last Friday night, news has reached us of the terror attacks in Paris with 132 people dead, all as equally undeserving as any of us or those in Siloam two thousand years before. Another tragedy we face with no small number of questions. There aren’t any guarantees for any of us, no “sky is always blue” in our lives on planet earth, no promises of paradise on earth. Good times are tainted by ensuing disappointment. Pleasure by pain. Happiness by loss, even tragedy.

Good news and not soI’ve been forcibly reminded of it again personally after a mixed-news visit to my oncologist late last week. Whilst he confirmed that my tumour has shrunk, Dr Goodman is now expressing a question. The scan I had a month ago showed a shadowy area on my liver. It’s one that’s been there all along in every CT scan, but he’s always judged it to be a small harmless lesion (a haemangioma). However, because it now appears to have grown by up to 2mm, it could indicate that it’s not actually a haemangioma but a melanoma tumour. Positively, it’s possible that it only appears bigger because of a different angle on the latest CT photo. But negatively, as it’s been accompanied by the appearance of a marble-sized lymph node gland in my left arm pit, he’s concerned about it. To clear up the questions, he’s ordered an MRI scan this coming Friday and is suggesting we might need to consider removing the lymph nodes under my arm.

Either way, if the shadow is either a slightly expanding, yet harmless haemangioma or a tumour, it would would explain why I’ve had a degree of intermittent low level discomfort in that region over the last few weeks.

Disturbance in the forceIt does somewhat downgrade the good news I wrote about here two weeks ago, and (to use Star Wars language), it feels for Catherine, me and the family like a “disturbance in the force”. It has mildly unsettled us. We’re continuing to remember, however, that the main tumour on my lung has continued to shrink. That’s indicative of the immune system doing what was hoped. If need be though, they will with no hesitation, put me straight onto ipilimumab’s son & heir, pembrolizumab. I’ve apparently been quite a celebrated case in the Exeter Oncology Department as I’ve responded so well to the immunotherapy and with virtually no side effects. A praying multitude around the globe I’m sure has been a factor.

Digging down deeperThe question I ask though is, “Where do I go with the thoughts and feelings that resurface again when I get news like this?” I’m no more immune from both the painful and the tragic than those folk in Siloam, in Paris, in Beirut, in Syria and other places. Even as I was reading through Luke 21 yesterday morning as part of Grace Church’s daily reading plan, I was reminded that suffering, even agony, is part of the journey for God’s people. What it does do is to cause me to quarry down deeper into Father’s love and Christ’s perseverance. As I do that, there are always further depths to plumb, gold to be found, shortcomings and weakness to be exposed then respectively forgiven and strengthened. Jesus’ response to the tragedy at Siloam was simple. “Unless you repent, you too will all perish”. He’s getting at the fact that life is unpredictatable. Tragedies happen. Death can catch any of us out at any time, and for whatever reason. But by the word ‘perish’, he means eternal death – not a happy concept! It might seem to our ears initially harsh, but I’m reminded that this is the God who loves me profoundly, telling truth that needs to be heard. If I want to survive a perishing eternity, there’s a way out. Repentance. An honest acknowledgement before God that we’ve lived “too much by the devices and desires of our own hearts” rather than like His perfect Son. Repentance is the first step in an ‘into-eternity’ relationship with God. But it’s also an ongoing necessity in this life for a close walk with Him  – it’s an ongoing entry point for the Holy Spirit to work in me, making me more like Christ. It’s not a route to a pain-free, tragedy-immune life on earth, but it sure is the road that provides God’s great strength (aka his “com-fort”) to carry on in the face of life’s brutalities. Repentance and faithful confidence in Christ is the doorway to the joy-filled life, to the highway of deepest peace. 

Over the weekend, while reading from Hebrews 12, I read –

Great cloud of witnesses“Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.

Among that great cloud of witnesses are the many (and often stumbling) men and women who feature in the pages of scripture. Others of them surround our family at home and at church; still others are friends near and far. They’re all there cheering us on and keeping us buoyed. As I head towards my MRI scan on Friday and then wait for the results, I hold onto all these things, aiming not to lose heart. I’m keeping my eyes on Him who died for me and now sits at the right hand of the throne of God. It seems to me a great place to focus.

PS I’m really thrilled that Joshua has contributed something today in the column alongside, now entitled, “Joshua’s Encouragements from the Scriptures”. It encouraged me too. He’s currently living in East Devon working for The Community Church, Honiton. 

 

A celebration, a loss and some soulful music

Autumn in Haldon Forest, nr ExeterI was thinking today that this was an autumn I wasn’t expecting to see. This time last year, I really thought the leaves would be falling and I wouldn’t be here to see either them or even the entire summer we’ve just had. The different perspective on life and living that it brings is noticeable. Relationships have deepened and various friendship ties that might have become loose have been strengthened. Priorities to which I might have paid little more than lip service, have become more plain, even urgent. It feels like a fresh flowering of life.

Educational aidsIn the middle of that flowering, we had wonderful news late Monday afternoon that following an interview, observed teaching and planning sessions, Catherine had been appointed as the permanent, full-time teacher in one of the Early Years Foundation Stage classes at the primary school in which she’s been working for the past year. It’s fifteen minutes drive from our new home. The joy was tangible as we stood hugging each other, both struggling with our emotions. It’s been an eight year journey for her to reach this point with no small number of knock backs – along with some encouragements – along the way. If Father’s timing is said to be perfect, here is another example. Just when I’ve stepped back from my regular paid employment and the need is there, so is God’s provision. Paul’s words to the Philippians show themselves true again as I read, “Do not be anxious about anything but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God”. Those answers might not come as quickly as I want; some prayer might remain apparently unanswered as Jesus has something better for us. But He hears and he acts. And so we pray on, holding our lives and our broken world – including fleeing, desperate Syrians,Iraqis and others – before Christ.    

Piano keyboardIt was a privilege to travel down to Plymouth some weeks ago, to be in a studio for a live recording session as one of Ben’s best friends, Samuel Chapple, laid down a number of piano tracks for an album, among them his arrangement of Amazing Grace, arranged, played and recorded as a tribute to Ben. I’ve included a link to it at the bottom of this page. When we find ourselves in a broken place, it’s a truly beautiful piece of music and we’re so grateful to Sam for this way of expressing his love and affection for his friend.

Ben & NigelBut just as I prepared to write and post this entry, I’ve learned of the death of a friend who was one of my closest during my teenage years, through my twenties and beyond. Nigel was, until illness overtook him last year, an associate professor in Sydney lecturing and researching neuromuscular diseases. He and I were at kindergarten together, lived in the same street for many years, attending Christ’s College, cycling to school together, both playing in the school orchestra (he was a great flautist), shared employment both as scrubs cutters and gorse sprayers in Pigeon Bay near Christchurch and then on a road gang installing road signs in Essex in 1989/90. He was my Best Man as I married Catherine. As well as sharing a surname (his with an added ‘e’), we shared many fun and memorable times. I’m only sorry that in recent years, because of the distance and, more latterly my own health, I’ve not been able to see him as much as I would have liked, but we had been in as much email contact as we could both manage in this last year. We had shared the irony of the fact that we were both now facing serious life threatening conditions having shared so many other things in life together. Sadly, both his chemotherapy and immunotherapy treatment proved to be unsuccessful. I’ll miss him. The rather precious photo (click on it for a better view) shows him with Ben on his lap reading him a story at our home in Auckland in 1993. The bitter twist is that they’ve both left us in the same year. I’m filled with a fresh sense of sadness.

As I watch Sam play his rendition of Amazing Grace in tribute to Ben, I also think of Nigel. God’s amazing grace given through my constant companion, Jesus Christ, has given me so much for which to be thankful. It was grace that extended to both Ben and Nigel. They were a gift to me.

Sam has wonderfully included a short tribute/ascription to Ben at the end of the video. 

The Agony, the Ecstasy and the Everyday

One year agoIt’s a strange thing to be sitting here writing knowing that it was a year ago yesterday since I was diagnosed, twelve months since I received the news that I probably only had six to eight months to live. And in that time, our lives have been irreversibly changed in so, so many ways. The great irony of 21st century life is that despite advances in all areas of science, of technology, leisure and more – our lives are so finite and despite our wishful thinking, we have so very little idea what the future holds or any power of ourselves to control it. I remember so clearly when Catherine and I moved to the UK in 1997 and I joined the staff team at St Mary’s Upton on the Wirral, my first preaching engagement at their large evening service was teaching from the New Testament letter of James, a book that they were working through on Sunday evenings. James’ words struck me then, but strike me now with even greater force –

Now listen, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.” Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, “If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.”

Our lives are precious but unpredictable. We have no idea what’s round the corner. If someone had said to me on the morning of 2nd July last year – the day before news of Ben’s first seizure in Brazil reached us – that by May this year, he’d have died and I would be retired from parish ministry because of a terminal cancer diagnosis, I would have looked, in the very least, bemused.    

Not listeningBut in a generation that, faced with both mortality and death, quickly sticks its fingers in its ears and loudly shouts “la, la, la, la, la, la”, producing all manner of distractions –  including remaking God in our own image – in an attempt to avoid facing up to the big questions death poses, questions about what life is ultimately about, about how we’re facing up to standing before God (if we believe in a God at all), about our own shortcomings and failures, then…then I’m reminded of the sheer wonder of both the place of peace and the answers found in the man who came from heaven as God with us  saying “Whoever believes in me, as Scripture has said, rivers of living water will flow from within them” and then, standing at the grave of his friend confidently asserted, “I am the resurrection and the life…those who believe in me, though they die will live”. And the apostle Paul, speaking about Him wrote, “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. It’s just that what He says throughout the gospels, hard though some of his words are, makes sense to the human condition and why his teaching has spoken to generation after generation over 2000 years.

Hard timesSome do wonder, looking at our family thinking, “well if God is so amazing, it’s not exactly a good advert for Him that these things have happened to you”. But I can honestly say that for us, while it’s been a painful year, it’s been a precious one of knowing Father’s grace and supply in the middle of weakness and devastation in ways that we’ve not known before. We wouldn’t say that God has necessarily caused the things that we’ve experienced this year – they’re bigger questions for another time, perhaps another age – but neither has He been back-footed by any of them, as if left wringing His hands in despair, caught out, surprised and not sure what to do next. No, right there in the middle of the twists and turns of those things that happen to you and me, for anyone who’s repented and believed the good news about Jesus and placed the weight of their life’s trust on Christ, He’s immediately and already there by his Holy Spirit, using even the worst of things to bring not just glory to His name, but grace and strength for us as His precious sons and daughters, as well as an opportunity for a deepening trust and encounter with Him that no other circumstance perhaps would offer. If I consider that God’s greatest purpose and plan to save you and me involved Him using what hell and evil thought was its finest hour of triumph gained through crucifying Jesus Christ, and turned it into heaven’s greatest victory, then I’ve got a confidence that His arm is not too short to save and help us in our smaller circumstance. Quite truly, “we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose”.

Garden changeAnd it’s from that place of peace that we continue to live with the things we face. We continually feel so blessed living in our new home, pinching ourselves that we can be here, with great neighbours all around us. The garden (click the photos for a bigger image) is now looking beautifully transformed thanks to my wonderful mother’s design, Marc & Angie’s spadework and then some careful planting. It’s also been great to have friends who’ve lately scooped us up and taken us out or had us to stay – thanks Matt & Louise, Phil & Mal. I’m generally keeping well, although regular bouts of nausea – AKA Jeremy’s morning sickness – as well as the recent appearance of marble-sized lumps, one in an armpit and one at the top of my throat, accompanieIMG_2368d by some tenderness and discomfort, have brought us up short. A phone call however to the oncology department assured us that they didn’t think it was anything to be worried about, more just swollen glands because of other things. My next scan takes place in two weeks, with results returned three weeks after that. Bouts of sudden tiredness regularly strike me, confirming that it’s been right to change tracks work-wise and be about other things. Among them, I’ve taken on a pastoral support role serving the twenty five or so ministers and pastors from across the denominations here in the city who belong to the Exeter Evangelical Partnership, visiting them, listening and praying in what, for some, are sometimes lonely and difficult situations. Our church family at Grace Church in Exeter have been a real blessing to us and provide us with a place of care and enormous encouragement, as well as giving us opportunities to continue to serve in a variety of ways. Catherine has started back at school, this time as class teacher and being interviewed for the permanent post this Monday; Tom is back in Cardiff, Josh now living in Honiton and loving working for his church for the year (click here to see more), Lydia enjoying a fresh start at Exeter College and Simeon the rush of a new motorbike.    

Dark clouds and sunWe’ve also just passed the five month mark since Ben’s death. The range of emotions that I find I live with leave me with both agony and ecstasy sometimes within hours of each other. Some days feel normal, others by no means. On a break away in Oxford with Tom three weeks ago (thanks again Chrissie, Nick, Annabel & Theo for having us), I shared with Tom my angst that I was living life too normally, not showing enough grief before the children, perhaps giving them the impression that I didn’t love and miss Ben much and therefore that I don’t really love them or wouldn’t miss them much if something happened to any of them. Tom was a great counsellor and just simply assured me that he – they all – knew that I loved and grieved for Ben, that he knew I loved and would feel the same for any of them, that life had to carry on with much normality – going to the shops, laughing with friends – and that none of these things meant we were turning away from Ben and our memories of him. As I shared more with him, he listened as I said I was finding it hard to cope with the thought that the photos we anticipate having of them all – of Tom, Simeon, Josh and Lydia  – will over the years show them maturing, changing and moving on, but Ben’s last photos will remain unchanged, never to age beyond 23yrs old, and only to fade. It’s in those moments that I feel an overwhelming and deep heaving sense of the loss of Ben, of what has been – of hopes and dreams that we had, that Ben and Dabi had. I felt it so deeply on Sunday night two weeks ago that I found I was rounding on myself critically saying, “HOW COULD YOU’VE LET THIS HAPPEN!? YOU WERE HIS FATHER! HOW TOTALLY IRRESPONSIBLE YOU WERE. YOU COULD HAVE DONE SOMETHING MORE! I had to sit quietly alone realising that reasonableness told me something else. But despite that, I cried myself to sleep that night – Catherine having gone to bed earlier – heaving deeply as tears were streaming onto my pillow. Father thankfully brought healing sleep that quickly overcame me.

Yet for all that too, I have moments of utter ecstasy. The ultimate aim of any Christian parent should be that above anything else, each of their children finds a personal saving relationship with Jesus Christ and that they build their lives around knowing and serving Him and that ultimately they’ll go to be with Him for eternity. And so I found myself sitting on the grass next to Ben’s grave last week, through tears, laughing and smiling and worshiping Jesus that that’s where he is – safely tucked away in that place where I’ve wanted all my children to one day ultimately be. And so moments of sheer joy overcome me as I think Ben is face to face with the One he came to know years ago – Jesus  – who Ben, with Dabi, had been building his life around.     

ApostlesCreedDuring this week, we gathered with our church family for an evening of encouragement. As we worshipped through song together, we sang “This I Believe”, a song based on the Apostle’s creed. I felt tears forming and my hand rising in surrendered worship as we sang…

I believe in the resurrection

That we will rise again

For I believe in the name of Jesus

I believe in You

I believe You rose again

I believe that Jesus Christ is Lord

…that because Jesus rose, so His blood-bought people one day will physically too. That Ben, not yet with his perfected resurrected body, but certainly in spirit, is there already with the “spirits of the righteous made perfect”…that one day, after Christ’s return when that which we proclaim in the creed – the resurrection of the dead – will take place. Then we’ll see with our own eyes, stand in our renewed flesh before our amazing Saviour, because of his substitutionary death for each of us on the cross, because of His amazing grace and forgiveness, …and “we shall be with the Lord forever”. The sense of the hope of glory, of what lies ahead, fills my tank for serving Him today.

Finally, we love hearing from you all either by way of comments left here on the blog on in emails. They mean so much.

Light Piercing the Silence

Clock busynessMy many weeks of silence since last I wrote have been for a number of reasons, but perhaps really only one. With the busyness of our house move eight weeks ago, taking my brother’s wedding in Kent and a holiday with our wider family from New Zealand and Australia, followed by clearing the Vicarage over these last few weeks and numerous associated trips to the charity shop warehouse and recycling centre, it’s been a non-stop season of change, with lots of joys and things to remember.

anguished prayerBut perhaps the real reason is that it’s been painful to stop. For each time I do, the reality of Ben’s death sits on me. Its noise means that there is no easy sitting in quiet without it drowning out what silence I have, making times of quiet – even to pray – feel impossible. Even as I write now, I find my jaw clamping and my eyes welling, and something deep down inside me crying out with an extended, “No! no!…this cannot be!” On 27th July it was his and Dabi’s second wedding anniversary and eight days ago, it was 100 days since his death and I know it’s high time to write again. I know that in writing, it’ll help me continue to process and own what’s going on inside and prayer will come more easily, allowing a river of healing to start to flow more and more as I keep saying, “Father, I don’t get all that’s happened and don’t understand ‘why?’ …but I trust You’.

We’re all as a family adjusting and supporting each other as we go; keeping Ben’s name as common currency around the house has been vital as have been the tears and the occasional meltdowns. There are those particularly tough moments such as our visits to his grave when we see the small plaque in the ground reading “Benjamin Clark…Died 28th April 2015…At Rest…Aged 23”, and we feel more speechless than before. How helpless did I feel when Simeon arrived at the house two weeks ago having laid some flowers at the grave, and looked at me through tear-stained eyes and said, “Dad, don’t you go too – I couldn’t stand it”. All we could do was hold each other through our tears.   

Friends helpingIt’s been such a gift to have so many friends around us – those who’ve helped us move, visited, those who’ve assembled furniture, stripped wallpaper and painted rooms for us, who’ve had us over for meals and prayed with us. Our family at Grace Church here in Exeter have been superb – to walk into the Sunday morning gatherings and hear from God’s unchanging Word and sing powerful hymns, many written hundreds of years ago and sung by the saints over the generations, expressing timeless, unchanging truths about our wonderful Saviour God. They’ve been a life line. So too have been times with the blokes from Grace Church in our community group as we meet regularly for breakfast to share and pray for each other. To have been able to cry with them has been releasing. It’s been a heartening reminder of what the body of Christ can do and be as it carries along one part of the body that’s hurting.        

Finally, after what was an inconclusive autopsy, we have had news from Ben’s neurologist as to the the likely cause of death. Having disseminated the histology results around the world, he asked us to meet him recently to tell us that the not-yet-proved, but likely cause of death is a new and rare virus known as Henipavirus. It is one which has, up until this point, only been found in north-eastern Australia, Malaysia, Madagascar and Ghana. It arises from the urine of a fruit bat infecting fruit which is then ingested, or can be picked up from horses which have been infected from the fruit bat. The fact that the incubation period is quite short indicates that because Ben hadn’t visited any of those places (with the exception of Malaysia many years ago), he most likely contracted it in Brazil, making him possibly the first case to be found there. Dr Harrower was clear with us that there is no known cure for it yet. Whilst it’s cold comfort to know this, we were strangely helped as it would have been harder to discover he’d died from something for which there was a cure. He also shared with us that, had he lived any longer, Ben would have deteriorated physically and become increasingly mentally impaired. Again we felt a sense of relief that he was spared this. But nonetheless, we process this information with a mixture of unreality and more than a few “Why?..Why Ben?…How?…?”

Next Friday, I have an appointment to register his death at the Civic Centre. The following day would have been his 24th birthday. We’re gathering with some family and friends for a picnic near Plymouth, his home for three years until 2013, to mark it. It was great to have been down in Plymouth two days ago in a recording studio as Ben’s oldest friend, Sam Chapple, recorded his own arrangement of Amazing Grace in tribute to Ben.    

Medical good newsIn terms of my own health, just yesterday, I had the good news from my oncologist that after a CT scan two weeks ago, my tumour has further reduced in size – not as much as last time, but it’s going in the right direction. And we must remember that this is a cancer which up until recently was  considered rampant and virtually unstoppable. Whether it’s principally the ipilimumab or the 10,001 people around the world joined in prayer for me, I’ll not know this side of the grave. But I’m content to thank Father for His work through any and all methods. We’ve all collectively breathed a sigh of relief – the days leading up to my results always cause some anxiety. Josh has described the feeling well in a song he’s just written and recorded, entitled Diagnose…to listen to it, click here. But to help enhance the good flavour of the day, Josh also found out yesterday that he passed his A Levels. This, on top of some great Uni results for Tom (who had to sit a late exam in Cardiff this week because of one he missed on the day of Ben’s burial), means we can all feel a good measure of thankfulness. 

IMG_2097And so the journey continues for us all. Dabi remains at her parents home in Brazil slowly rebuilding, while we here in Exeter also watch our changed lives take shape in a new house that feels like home already. We’re very much loving living in St Thomas just a short walk from Exeter’s beautiful quayside and feel so grateful to so many, and ultimately Father God, for making it possible. We still pinch ourselves to think how it all came about. With the Vicarage now cleared and cleaned, all that remains to be done is to relocate a few plants from the Vicarage garden in September to go in our small – but bijou – new garden which is about to undergo a miniature ‘grand designs’ makeover.

As we walk into the future, I’m reminded from the scriptures of Jesus’ time in the wilderness, being tempted by Satan to turn his back on his Father and give up on His character and promises. Whilst I’m not necessarily being tempted with the same things, nonetheless there’s always the lure through all that’s happened, to listen to that other dark voice that says, “Give up. With all that you’ve been through, surely there’s nobody there to hear your prayers and help. It’s all wishful thinking”. But the eyes of faith see something else. They recognise the presence of Christ, the hand of God, working through and with our pain to bring us to a deeper experience of His goodness and amazing grace. The eyes of faith see that in the hour of Christ’s greatest agony on the cross when He cried out, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” followed by the words on his dying breath, “It is finished” – that even then, when things seemed bleakest, darkest and out of control, God was doing His greatest work for us. I tell my soul in these moments that we live through, “Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Saviour and my God.” His past faithfulness gives me hope today. Like Christ in the wilderness, it’s a case of holding onto Father’s firm Word. It’s not a blind faith or a ‘religion’ – it’s a relationship and trust in Someone attested to by multiple eye witnesses who were prepared to put life and limb on the line because of what they’d seen and heard, carefully recorded (with now an almost embarrassing wealth of unchanged manuscript evidence to show the written record we have in scripture hasn’t been changed), and based on the fact of His resurrection from the dead. Because of the ultimate vindication that Jesus’ resurrection gave, it’s a blazing signpost saying here is One, unlike anyone else ever, that we should listen to above all others and build our lives around. And that, through thick and thin, He can be trusted. He’s my champion. My hero. Our champion, our hero.

Arohanui – big love – to you all.

A few practical matters….

For those who’d like our new address, please click here…it’ll generate an email you simply then need to send without adding further text (unless you want to!) On receipt of the email, I’ll reply with the details.

If you’re at St Mary’s, Upton, a Clark family contingent hope to be with you this Sunday evening! 

As well, if you’re reading this having linked into it through Ben’s Facebook page, and you want to keep up with this blog, as Ben’s page is about to be closed down, please subscribe directly to this blog by signing up in the box at the top right of this page.

Painful pathways

Dark pathsThere is both so much to write and yet nothing to write. Tomorrow will be three weeks since Ben died. The days, in one sense, seem so normal, so brutally normal, and yet at times crushingly painful. I go about some of the usual activities, the everyday stuff of life – maybe it’s driving, shopping, putting the bins out – and every now and again, the fact of Ben’s death overwhelms me like a tidal wave and I have to turn my head and clamp my jaw. Other times, when I’m by myself, perhaps showering, and alone with my thoughts, I’ve found myself doubled up in agonised weeping.

tears-silent-language-of-griefGrief is such an intensely personal thing that it’s so often hard to know what to say when people ask how I am. How can it be described when I have this overpoweringly deep ache inside that’s beyond words? I hear the words ‘Ben’, ‘died’ and ‘dead’, and they can’t, they don’t, they shouldn’t belong together in one sentence. Losing a child is the one thing we don’t seem to be programmed for. I’ve not trodden this path before and I don’t have any map for it. The grief ‘process’ is not a tidy thing. The stages are messy and mixed – normality mixed with numbness, acceptance merged with denial, reality mixed with unreality; my mind seems constantly overtaken by this thing, this momentous thing that’s overtaken us. 

Lonlieness of griefOver the years, I’ve given away many copies of Nicholas Wolterstorff’s extraordinary book, Lament for a Son. It’s his diary account of the year after the death of his own son, aged 25. I now find myself dipping into it with a greater intensity. Part way through he writes words that now grab me afresh – 

There’s a hole in the world now. In the place where he was, there’s now just nothing. A center, like no other, of memory and hope and knowledge and affection which once inhabited this earth is gone. Only a gap remains. A perspective on this world unique in this world which once moved about within this world has been rubbed out. Only a void is left. There’s nobody now who saw just what he saw, knows what he knew, remembers what he remembered, loves what he loved. A person, an irreplaceable person, is gone. Never again will anyone apprehend the world quite the way he did. Never again will anyone inhabit the world the way he did. Questions I have can never now get answers. The world is emptier. My son is gone. Only a hole remains, a void, a gap, never to be filled.

Holding hands in griefAnd yet for all this, paradoxically, I’ve still found the occasional quiet, still place. Where times of personal prayer seem difficult, sitting in silence seems to bring some measure of peace. Being held by Father. Aware of the effect of others praying for us. Occasionally as Catherine and I exchange a glance across the room, or quietly lie holding each other, heads on our pillows, we share a few words, even a simple prayer, or we simply look into each other’s eyes…and we know a strength. We’ve been buoyed by some wonderful friends who’ve dropped everything to be with us. Our old friend, Michael – Ben’s Godfather – coming from New Zealand for five days. Our dear friend Hélène, who took over the running of our home for some days to give us space to just ‘be’. So many good friends and family from far and wide who travelled to be at Ben’s Thanksgiving Service and since, to say nothing of the cards, letters and flowers that have arrived. The strengthening effect from all this has been tangible. (For those not able to be at the service, the Order of Service is included below) 

At Ben’s burial in Alphington, Exeter, last Tuesday – a quiet gathering with family and a couple of friends – I was conscious of a peace as I sung the Lord’s Prayer in Maori, holding Catherine’s hand and aware of Dabi, then aware of the tears of one of Ben’s brothers dropping to the ground in full flow as he held onto his mother. It was St Augustine who wrote 1600 years ago – 

“The tears…steamed down, and I let them flow as freely as they would, making of them a pillow for my heart. On them it rested” (Confessions IX, 12)

There is a peace being discovered. I know it’s Father quietening us with His love. 

Good news 3Just two days after the burial, and the day we said goodbye to my parents as they returned to NZ, Catherine and I visited my oncologist to be told that the tumour on my lung has shrunk by one third, and other smaller lesions present in other places in my body remain unchanged. We couldn’t quite grasp it. That news came a day after an unexpected phone call from our insurer saying that my illness policy was being backdated twelve years to the time of my original (and apparently, back then, less serious) melanoma diagnosis in 2002 and was now going to pay out enough for us to be mortgage-free in our intended new home.

With both these pieces of good news, evidences of God’s goodness, my mind confronts me with the question, “If these, why not Ben also?” But my heart quietly mediates, not with an answer, but a response, “Remember what God said, ‘Behold I am making all things new’…there is the Day coming when it’ll all be alright, when it’ll all become clear”. It all serves to remind me that Father weaves the golden threads with the dark ones as He works all things together for good  and that God who in Christ suffered for us on the cross, and who took the sting out of death for those who love and trust Him, walks with us in all things.  

Ben’s Service of Thanksgivingclick to enlarge

Ben's Funeral SheetBen's Funeral Sheet 2

The big decision and the Faithful Hand

graphLast week’s activity spike saw a fairly gentle and calm return to ‘normal’ within a couple of days. Ben remained on the High Dependency Ward back in the Royal Devon & Exeter Hospital for two days after his two strong seizures, but made such good progress that he was returned to the Mardon Neuro Rehab Centre by the middle of the week. He was so happy and grateful to get back to his room at Mardon as it’s feeling quite like home to him now. He’s felt incredibly tired since these recent seizures and spends a lot more time sleeping as his body is plainly catching up and healing. He choose not to come home for the day on Saturday, feeling too vulnerable and at risk of something happening. That feeling was confirmed as yesterday he had another bout of sickness which has both laid him out and left him feeling pretty weak. He loves having visitors, so if you know him and you’re able to get there, do try….visiting times are 4.30pm – 9.30pm daily.

My rashes and itchiness described last week, whilst possibly a side effect of the Ipilumumab’s interplay with my body, were considered more likely an allergic reaction to something. Driving into the hospital beforehand however, I was convinced in my mind it was the beginning of the end, but was reassured by the ward doctor that all seemed fine, and within 12hrs and with a dose of antihistamine, it had all cleared up. My sister Julia in keep-calm-and-dont-be-such-a-drama-queenMelbourne suggested that perhaps with my immune system living in such a heightened state, it meant that something I might have had a minor reaction to once, now manifests more severely. “Seemed sensible”, the rest of the family chimed in via WhatsApp, our ever-pinging group chat app on our smart phones. As my friend Dave kindly offered, “You just have to learn to be not such a drama queen!” It was good to have a laugh about it. However in the last few days, I’ve been feeling pretty ‘feak & weeble’ and over the weekend have developed signs of discomfort in my chest which have come and gone with the return of some fairly prolific night sweats again. Is this the sign of my tumour finally reacting to the drug and becoming inflamed, or something more? I just can’t hide from the feeling that things are moving along.  And that’s unsettled Catherine and family around us, which causes me some agony.  That, to be honest, is my ongoing source of pain in all this…seeing what it keeps causing in my darling ones. The crucial next CT scan takes place this Friday, but results aren’t returned until I meet with my oncologist two weeks later. Is it going to feel a long couple of weeks? Perhaps, but as I’ve often felt tangibly carried along as on eagles wings, so I’ve got a confidence that Father will continue to do so…and that for all of us.

retirementBut our big decision which was announced across my churches this last weekend is that, after some time considering the realities and possibilities, I will take early retirement on grounds of ill-health most probably effective at the end of April. It was done in consultation with my doctor and the Bishop of Exeter. It was partially my doctor’s unequivocal “absolutely!” that made it so clear, but also an increasing feeling that it would best serve the family’s needs as well as opening up new, but lighter ministry opportunities for me while or as I’m able. It does seem strange that at the age of 48 and after 20 years of stipendary ordained ministry to be doing this, but these are extraordinary circumstances. Plainly, it’s a decision which we’ve not taken lightly and I’m conscious of the pain of parting, leaving our village and church family in our parishes here, but it’s one about which ultimately we feel very peaceful. It’ll also allow for some clarity and planning for my colleague Mike (whose wife Rachel is facing not one but two major battles with cancers…read her blog here) and the diocese in considering a successor to help shoulder the heavy load currently being sustained since I’ve been on sick leave these last few months.

In the meantime, it presents us with the big issue of housing. As a large family, we’ve benefitted from some excellent church-owned vicarages over the last twenty years, but on retirement, all that goes. Whilst we do own a small 1.5 bedroom flat in theHouseHunting-Pic-copy small Devon market town of Crediton, it’s tiny and only good for 2-3 or short stay accommodation. So, considering the future, we’ve started on the momentous task of house hunting, of doing our calculations and engaged in the breathtaking task of raising finances, trusting God as we seek to buy, for the first time, a family home that may or may not be a part of my own future.  Already we’ve received three particular signs which have encouraged us to believe that we’re doing the right thing. Firstly, a dear woman approached us at a large city-wide service one night and through our conversation, encouraged Catherine and I to realise afresh that God saw and could supply the need and that she might,after some prayer, be of some assistance. Then secondly, a couple of days after taking the retirement decision, we received not only a gift from my previous church and from friends, but also a note through the post from a member of a former congregation of mine, sending greetings and love, and being reminded herself of God’s faithfulness shown to her both directly and through generous_godher late husband, felt prompted by God to send a gift to us and was therefore enclosing a cheque. The gift was a generous ‘seed’ amount of money, tangibly now showing us that Father would help supply what was needed for a family home. Catherine and I stood facing each other with eyes welling as we read both it and the cheque. Amazed. Speechless. Thankful. It was the apostle Paul who wrote, “And my God will supply every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:19)

Thirdly, we put our flat on the market a week ago last Saturday. Five days later, we had an offer – full asking price. Again, we saw Father’s hand.        

Understandably, Catherine is particularly keen that I’m a part of any purchase – that she can say I saw it, that I was there. So, still waiting to see how Father might supply what is lacking, yet proceeding sensing that we ought, we’ve viewed a few houses and, taking into account both the location of Catherine’s job in Crediton and Exeter College for Lydia next year, we’ve identified and viewed what we feel is the perfect one – a modest house, and one that has room enough for those who are still at home including Ben & Dabi, who’ll most likely need accommodation and support with us into the medium term and a downstairs bedroom should a time come when I need it.  

As I listened to an amazing man last week speak about he and his young family’s work, living and sharing Christ among Muslim fishing communities in South-East Asia, he said so often it’s only when we’re at our wits end, God meets us there. I smiled and nodded my head in recognition. It was good though to be encouraged to keep realising it. 

Normality and the everyday

Unexpected RoadI remember years ago when our five children were much younger, people would regularly say to both me and Catherine, “I don’t know how you cope with five!”. But for us, it had just become our ‘normal’. We re-define our normality according to that with which we become accustomed.  And I suppose that’s something of where we are today, living through what are chewy, tough circumstances, but something that has become our normality.  It doesn’t mean to say that we have become desensitised and stoical in the face of hard realities and future prospects, or that we treat people’s kindness and sympathy with any disregard – far from it, we cherish it – but it means that it doesn’t feel like a black hole that’s constantly pulling us in. There’s a rhythm and everydayness in life we’ve adopted, undergirded by the Father’s everlasting arms that means I can presently sit in front of the fire as I write, a typical homely winter’s day scene, Catherine can be upstairs sorting some clothes, Lydia in her room on Facebook, Josh out at a friend’s house for the night having a jam session with his guitar, Tom at university reading for an essay, Ben and Dabi sitting side by side at the Mardon Rehab Centre and Simeon…well, I’m not sure where he is at the moment. Part of that rhythm also allows quiet tears to come and go for us from time to time, both folded into and a part of the everydayness as past, present and future all meet.  I sat next to one of our five during the week as tears flowed, set off by some passing old memory which had highlighted the fact that future memories including me might not be there to be made.  Again, it’s a part of our normality – the painful part – learning to lament. I’m conscious that it’s something scripture shows, especially the Psalms, pouring out our hearts to each other and God, openly and honestly yet trusting that His way and purpose is somehow always and ultimately good.    

So it was with a sense of the everyday that Catherine and I saw my oncologist last Thursday, having had a CT scan a week Stethoscopeearlier.  Ayman Nasser, my main oncology doctor and one with whom I’ve developed an easy rapport, took us through what they’d found. And that was? Precisely, nothing new – my tumour remains unchanged. In one way, viewed negatively, the ipilimumab has had no effect on the tumour itself – neither an expected inflammation and nor any shrinkage. But positively, it has not grown nor has the tumour proliferated into further tumours in my lung. Ayman personally had not seen this before and was not sure exactly what it meant, but when I asked him if it was an ‘OK’ result, he nodded and said, ‘Yes’. After some further talk around a variety of subjects, we left for home. But we left not only feeling completely easy about what we’d just heard, but actually quite content as it has helped clarify our thinking as we seek guidance for our future.

For Ben, we continue to nurse concerns. As one friend said yesterday, he is still ‘a very ill young man’. Whilst this journey of recovery is inevitably going to involve the occasional  ‘one step forward and two back’, we feel we’re seeing it happening more often than not. He came out and joined us at church near the Mardon Centre yesterday morning, having also been at home for most of the previous day. But he’s aware that walking for any distance is both risky and difficult because of dizziness, shakiness and the real risk of a seizure, but even simple tasks using his hands are slow, even unsafe, because of the trembling sensation he experiences in all his limbs. We’re meeting with the neurologist on Wednesday for a ‘round table’ discussion involving some of his therapists. Hopefully it’ll provide useful information which will help our perhaps over-eager expectations.  We were glad Dabi was able to spend part of last week with some Brazilian friends in the Midlands and we continue to pull information together to support an approach to the Home Office to either extend or alter her visitor’s visa.

I was encouraged to read these words from Isaiah last week, words which seem apt both for Ben and for us all, containing so much promise and hope…On Eagles wings

Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint (Isaiah 40:28-31)

Parallel journeys

long-road-into-the-sunsetThe news continues to be positive for Ben as he has made further progress in the last two days. Whilst he still has tubes at both ends, one feeding him, he’s alert. At this stage, he’s best described as being like a toddler in terms of his responses – he recognises me and Dabi, is not so sure about Catherine yet, but willingly gives her a kiss when asked, and when looking at photos, mixes up his siblings. The neurologist yesterday agreed that it seems there are blocks of memory that have returned, but others that haven’t. He waves his hand in response when we go, and smiles at times. His speech is minimal, quiet and only semi-coherent: communication is at its best when he has a ‘yes/no‘ question to answer. He’s making regular attempts to get out of bed, but is told firmly ‘no, lie down’ by us or the supervising nurse, because of the tubes. The physiotherapists had him standing yesterday to do some work with him. Apart from his mental capacities needing to improve, physically he’s very gaunt, and has lost much muscle tone.

All in all however, it’s been so encouraging for us to see his progress, although we understand that the rehabilitation road ahead is a long one. The medical team hope that as test results start to come back in the next 10 days, more answers will begin to emerge about what seems to be an auto-immune condition in Ben’s body causing a form of vasculitis.

For most of yesterday, I was literally through the wall from the neurology ward having my last treatment session with Ipilimumab. The dear NHS has now emptied an eye-watering  £360,000 worth of this state-of-the-art drug into my veins. As someone said to me recently, you must feel like the equivalent of the L’Oréal boy…“Because you’re worth it”! I’m going to CT-scanmiss Cherrybrook ward as I’ve come to enjoy my three-weekly enforced rest and relaxation session. Combined with each treatment has been an anti-histamine which makes me nicely drowsy and often sends me off to sleep. I’ve so appreciated the amazing attitude, care and attention of the nurses and other medical support staff – and that for Ben as well, especially while he was on the ICU. As far as my next steps, I’ll be having a CT scan in a month’s time. The team often find melanoma tumours by that stage to be inflamed and angry, reacting to the drug. They therefore pay little regard to this scan. However, a month on, I’m scanned again. This is the scan to which they’ll be paying particular regard as it’ll show which way it’s going.

In the meantime, when people ask how I am, I often answer as my dear old friend and mentor Simeon Damdar used to answer. Some 26 years ago, I worked as a Voluntary Evangelist for the London City Mission under Simeon’s care. But Simeon has suffered with heart problems for many years and when people asked him how he was, he’d answer, “I’m fine, I’m dandy, I’m thriving…it’s just my body that’s not so good”. I love that response. Truly one that a lover and friend of Jesus can use at most times. It is well with my soul. But I’m feeling fine and well otherwise. 

Catherine and the children are all doing “ok”, although this time with Ben has hit them all variously in different ways and at different times – one copes differently to another. Tom has managed his first term studying at Cardiff really well despite the fact that my diagnosis came only three weeks after he started. He’s even got some great first grades back. Simeon has come and gone, struggling at times but supported by his mates; Josh and Lydia I’ve mentioned in recent posts. 

As we continue to walk through each day, many messages come from friends. This one from Andrew, both a friend of ours and Ben from his time at Plymouth University, particularly struck a chord for me –   

“In the knowledge that sickness is part of this fallen world and will one day be wiped out and we pray against it…and yet knowing that suffering is that which God uses to sanctify and that even he can use sickness for good, I hope this quote from Samuel Rutherford is of some help: ‘When I am in the cellar of affliction, I look for the Lord’s choicest wines’.”

It has been a time of discovering the ‘choicest wine’…and it has been very choice. But it’s only possible because of the promises contained in these words of scripture, penned by the apostle Paul in his letter to the Romans, chapter 15

‘May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope’

Cancer and that

The Lord is my solid rock, my fortress, my rescuer. My God is my rock— I take refuge in him!— he’s my shield, my salvation’s strength, my place of safety. Psalms‬ ‭18:2

I’m Josh and I’m a 17 year old student doing my A2s.

If you go anywhere with Dad you’re guaranteed he’ll bump into someone he knows and you’ll be forced to wait while he engages with this person. Leaving church can take hours as everyone goes to him for conversation. The phone in our house is constantly ringing with people needing to talk to him. Everyone knows him and I think it’s safe to say he has touched everyone’s hearts at some point, yet I have the blessing of calling him Father and Daddy since I could speak.

Throughout my whole life I have looked up to him, his never ending stream of advice, his humility and unfailing love even when I was totally undeserving of it. He has truly been a model of our Heavenly Father and through it my relationship with both of them is constantly strengthening. So when I was told he had a tumour the size of a tennis ball from an Advanced Melanoma and he WILL die, the feeling was ineffable. We knew he had a shadow on his lung and from that news I treated it as cancer; when I was asked ‘Can Josh Clark come to reception please’ I went over in my head ‘cancercancercancercancer’ and thought I was prepared… No amount of prepping prepares you. I got the news I thought ‘okay, this changes nothing’ but the sheer normality of walking back to my class room hit like a brick wall; two friends smiled and said ‘hello’ to me and I could barely crack a smile and then sitting in the class I turned to my good friend Ruby and squeaked out ‘My dad has cancer’.The floods came and they did not stop…

Now as a Christian, my first prerogative was prayer, and prayer for healing. But then I began to think about two things – God’s plan and Dad’s destiny. Yes, I love my Dad. No, I don’t want him to die, but surely what is more important as a follower of Christ is to allow God to work as he will, that’s not to say God caused the cancer as the Bible makes it clear God doesn’t cause us pain but if we can use it to glorify God’s name then let it be – we know we has a plan infinitely better than ours that we can’t understand. Can you imagine trying to explain quantum physics to a baby?
Secondly, John 14:2-3 talks about a place that’s prepared for us. It’s not just a space on the floor but the creator of the universe has set aside a place for each one of us and that should excite and rouse anyone enough to be almost jealous of Dad. Without sounding like a psychopath, I am somewhat happy for him.

One thing thats floored me is the immense support from my friends and family. The thing that touched me the most is when I put up a Facebook status about the treatment and within minutes someone who I barely knew asked about it so she could pray about it; this meant so much that a group of strangers were praying for a man they didn’t know and I really thank God for the compassion of these Christians. But beyond the Church, my school friends have given me amazing support. I really do feel loved and reinforced by them even in the small things like asking how we are or having a hug. It just shows me I’m never alone.

And so we carry on walking this journey with three things to bear in mind – we are not alone, we have amazing friends and an amazing God on our side. We haven’t lost him yet so let’s savour that and finally if God decides to bring home, he’ll be dwelling with Jesus Christ so let us continue to glorify God!

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