I was out visiting church members two days ago, and I came across a scene that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to unsee. I was out with the pastor of a church in Charleston, and we were making the customary rounds. On the docket for the day was a hospital visit, a few house calls, and a delicious sandwich and root beer lunch special. It was shaping up to be a fantastic day. As we headed to the first house, to a man with terminal cancer, the pastor asked me a somewhat odd question. He asked, “you know why ministers carry around leather Bibles right?”. “I assume so they have a way to open the Scriptures if the need arises”, I responded. “Of course”, he said, “but it also helps to smell the leather if you’re stepping into a messy situation. We may be about to be in a messy situation”. Needless to say, he had his leather Bible with him and I did not have one with me.
About that time, we pulled up to the house, parking on the curb outside. It was a nondescript house in a nondescript neighborhood. One of hundreds just like it. The asphalt walkway was patched and cracked after years of use. There were 4 cars in the driveway. Some looked like they hadn’t been moved in years themselves. The man we were about to visit had terminal cancer. He, in the ripe old age of his 50s, had been sent home from the hospital for the final time. The doctors told him there was nothing left for them to do. They had advised him to make himself comfortable, as the end was very near, so here he was. We knocked on the door. No response. After jiggling the handle and finding the house unlocked, we walked in, calling out and announcing our presence.
The smell hit me first. Cats and cigarettes. Thick. Once my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the living room I saw the man, laying on his side on what looked to be a repurposed old hospital bed. He was staring through the TV mounted on the wall, as it played an episode of Gunsmoke he’d probably seen a hundred times. His eyes were blank, and the 5 o’clock shadow on his face was quickly progressing to a gruff 6-week stubble. The blanket he had covering his emaciated body was a bit too small, so his feet poked out the other side. I spotted one of the cats down the hallway, and I saw nine cigarette butts snuffed out in an ashtray next to the bed. Empty soda cups and an inhaler kept the ashtray company on the tiny bedside table. For a minute, I wondered if he’d even registered that we were there at all.
About that time, I heard a screen door squeak and slam somewhere deeper in the house. A few seconds later, a woman came bustling around the corner, hair up in a messy, frizzy bun, apologizing for the mess. “He’s been sleeping all day”, she told the pastor. About that time, the man’s eyes refocused on us. He whispered a hello, and the pastor asked him how he was doing. “I have good days and bad days”, he said, “today is a good day”. “Well that’s good to hear brother”, the pastor replied. “I see you haven’t kicked those cigarettes yet. You ought to chew a couple of ’em up and swallow it. You’d never want another one.. That’d fix it!”, he joked. The man just offered a weak smile. Everyone in the room knew the obvious. What good would it be kicking a nicotine habit with only a few weeks to live? What difference did black lungs make when cancer was ripping and tearing through your bones and blood cells? None at all. But yet we all pretended it was a good light-hearted joke. Something for the man to work on in the future. Something to work towards.
The woman had disappeared during the smoking conversation. About the time it ended, she came back into the room with a stack of old Kodak prints in her hands. “Pastor, I found these pictures the other day when cleaning out some drawers. Do you remember this?” It was a church gathering that had taken place back in what looked to be the 90s. There were still some big hair remnants of the 80s, and there were the classic knotty pine-paneled walls of the 70s, but the dates on the backs, written in scrawly, scribbled cursive, listed names of people I’d never met with the year 1996. There was a young man, probably in his mid-twenties, in a bunch of the pictures. Upon further inspection, I noticed the same man was shown in some of the pictures hanging on the wall in the den, right where we were standing. During an abrupt eureka moment, I realized that the pale man lying on the bed in front of me was the bright, bushy-haired, tanned man in the pictures. It was him and his wife, at this church gathering, almost 30 years ago. The smiles and laughter captured in the pictures were nothing like the scene I saw before me. Time and stress had no doubt done a number on the couple, for they looked different.
Those 30 years had been full of challenges. Alcohol, family issues, separation, etc. had all taken their toll. It seemed almost unfair. The man smiling in those pictures, with his arm wrapped around his young bride, had no idea he would be laid up on a bed in a dark house a mere 30 years later, chainsmoking and waiting for death. The woman told the pastor she was going to have some prints made for him. Once again, everyone knew it probably wasn’t going to happen. We were all just engaging in social formality by that point.
The pastor proceeded to read some scripture to the man. I knew he was listening, even though his eyes wandered. I was in awe as the pastor quoted an entire psalm from the heart. He spoke it with such power. Such conviction. The empowered inflection of his voice as he attempted to warm the man’s heart with the hope of things to come seemed to lift the sick man a bit from his pillow. After we finished reading the Scripture, we went to pray and leave. The woman, who’d been standing by quietly, interjected, asking if we could sing Amazing Grace.
Now… know that I am by no means a singer. And you put me in a tiny den with a tone-deaf pastor, an off-key woman, and a sick man, you wouldn’t think that we’d be making any sort of sweet sound to the Lord. How wrong I was! We gathered around the bed and began to sing.
Amazing grace… how sweet the sound… that saved a wretch… like meeee.
The song was beautiful. Much to my surprise, the man, who’d been all but lifeless before, began to join in with vigor. His voice could only be so strong, considering his condition, but the whisper became almost a low rumble. A hum. But it was unmistakable. He was singing. I felt convicted. Here I was, thinking that I had problems. After all, my rent was too high. My gas, grocery, and electric bills are going up. I can’t find anyone to watch a movie with on Friday night. Samuel… you don’t have problems, you have little nuisances that irk you. It was almost as if the Lord was speaking to me right there in that dark little den.
When the verse ended, we all just sat in silence for a moment. The man looked up at us. “Pastor, I’m ready. Counting down the days. I’m ready for Jesus.”
Oh that we too would be ready for Jesus! Just like that man there in that bed. I wish more people could get the crux of that message. I wish more people would see the truth of that statement. To be ready for Jesus. We live our lives encased and ensconced in the temporary pleasures and dalliances of this world. Too many people don’t see until it’s too late. They don’t gain the clarity of a man on his deathbed, because they don’t find themselves in that predicament. The good news is, you don’t have to be on your deathbed to get that clarity. You can know Jesus today. You can be ready for Jesus today.
We finished singing and praying and bid the couple farewell. Most likely, I will never see that man again. At least not on this side of heaven. However, I’m not going to forget the lesson the Lord taught me that day through him. As we drove away from the nondescript house in the nondescript neighborhood, the Lord gave me the privilege of seeing one last thing. It’s something I want to share here as we wrap up. You see… the Lord’ll give you the meat of a message. He’ll fill you with the main meal. But, every once in a while, He’ll give you a little dessert after.
Well… what was the dessert, Sam?
Two or three houses down, a little boy was playing with a ball outside with his dad. On the front of the house, I could see a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner hung in the huge picture window. It wasn’t too different from the ones Mama would put up for me and my siblings for our birthdays as kids. Cars had filled the driveway. As we drove by, I captured a freeze frame in my mind of that little boy, maybe 5 years old, laughing as his father kicked him the ball.
None of those people knew that a few houses down, a man was dying. That little boy was full of life, running and jumping and laughing. He knew nothing of the world of the man with the terminal cancer. All he knew was that there was cake, and presents, and a ball, and his daddy. In that little boy’s world, everything was perfect and new and vivid. In that man’s world, everything was slipping away, old, and fading.
But Jesus moves in both of those worlds. Jesus is relevant in both of those worlds. Jesus is all-powerful in both of those worlds.
I don’t know how He does it, but God is in-the-loop on all of us. It’s beyond my understanding, but every once in a while, the Lord allows me a glimpse of what it could be like. Seeing the older man, and seeing the little child. Nothing escapes His careful watch. He cares for the little child, just as He cares for the older man.
7 But even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not therefore: ye are of more value than many sparrows.
Luke 12:7
If He knows the hairs of my head, don’t you think He knows my problems? Don’t you think He knows my desires? My needs? My hopes? My dreams? Of course He does! He knows it all. He’s watching over that little boy, that terminal man, you, and me. He wants the same end result for all of us, to be with Him.
I’m making it. Because I accepted Jesus into my heart, I’m going to be with Him forever! The terminal man is making it too.
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