Your Will Be Done

March 18th, 10:05am. I’m sitting in a chair, overlooking the river on the final day of a silent retreat at the White House in the southern part of town. I get a text, “Hey can you talk.” I reply that I’m on retreat and that I’d call in a few hours. The reply, “Something’s come up.” I decide to step outside for a walk and call my friend. “What’s going on?” “I went to the hospital last night with intense chest pains. I thought I was having a heart attack. Good news is, no heart attack. Bad news is, they found a tumor the size of my fist in my chest.” “Wait, what?” “They think I have cancer.”

Mark has been like a little brother to me for the past 15 years. During the hardest crossroads of my life, he was the one who showed me that living out your faith was more about joy and abundance, than denial and hardship. We’ve travelled to more cities, and met with more people than I can count. I look back at so many adventures I’ve had, trying to build this business, and my life, and he’s been there through it all.

All I can think about is what my life would be like without him. How could I take care of his family - make sure his wife and kids were provided for? I usually am the one who has all the answers. I can sense that he is looking to me again to explain that everything will be fine, and that we will get through this, whatever it is. But I don’t feel that way. I don’t know what’s going to happen, and I can’t muster the strength to provide hope that I don’t know is real.

Moments like this only happen a few times in your life. There are significant memories like a birth of a child, or a first kiss that you will never forget, but moments where you feel a real panic and fear that overwhelms you, are rare. Your breath starts to quicken, you begin to sweat, and your mind begins to race with all of the horrible possibilities in front of you. This raw state is where God can do his best work in us. When you are stripped of your pride, your plans, your defenses. When you are driven to your knees, you have nowhere to look but up.

Somewhere in that moment, I realize the true source of my fear. I am not in control. I do not have the answers. Regardless of all my plans, my resources, and my skills, I can’t keep “tumors” from showing up in my life, or the ones that I love. It’s here that I have to realize that the only way out of this anguish, is not by fighting against it, but by being obedient to it. My life is not my own. As a pilgrim, journeying though this world, my home is somewhere else. Knowing and believing that helps me not lose perspective when the blow of tragic news strikes.

I can feel the peace settle over me. I trust things will be ok. Maybe they won’t be what I want, or what I envisioned, but it will be ok. And it’s not up to me to have all the answers. I just need to sit with my friend and go through this with him. I had a dream of us teaching our grandkids to fish and camp, or going on some bucket list adventure when we are gray and wrinkled. Maybe that will happen, maybe it won’t. My prayer is for healing. Not just for what's in my friend's chest, but for what's in mine.