Today I watched my grandson eat dinner. I’m not sure whether
he got more food on him, or in him. At nearly one year old he had yogurt spread
all over his face, his hands covered with the remnants of everything else he
was served, and drool running down his face as he gnawed on the baby spoon he
had been using more as an instrument of destruction than as an eating utensil.
It was delightful. As I sat there and
watched him eat and my son try not to be the victim of the
I have neuroendocrine carcinoid tumors, originating in the
pancreas. These are slow growing but terminal tumors. It is a relatively rare
disease effecting a very small number of people, comparatively, each year. You
know this type of cancer because it is the kind that took the lives of Dave
Thomas, founder of Wendy’s restaurants, and Steve Jobs, founder of Apple Computers.
My doctors don’t really know how long my metastasized tumors have been growing,
but they think for a few years at least. They also don’t know how fast they are
growing and can only guess at how long I have left. With treatment I hope to
able to remain active and working for a couple of more years before my life becomes
more severely limited, but I’m okay with that because I
So many times I’ve seen situations where someone dies
suddenly and the ripping of that precious life from their family and friends
tears the seams of their souls. Things are left unsaid. Relationships are never
mended. Scars grow deeper with grief. Dying suddenly is traumatic, and
devastating, and leaves in its wake so many things left undone. At least I have
a little time.
Dying slowly, on the other hand provides me with the gift of
time. Oh, its not much time, but I think it may be just enough time. It reminds
me to focus, with intention and passion, on the things that really matter, like
watching small children smear dinner in their hair. It makes me seek out
opportunities to tell stories, laugh at the past and the present. It calls me to
reevaluate my life’s goals and objectives. It helps me be more demonstrative
with my affection toward those I care about most. Dying slowly is a gift because it reminds me
that I have time to laugh, time to live, and time to love.
I have time to laugh. I love to laugh, and I have a big
laugh. If you hear me laughing, you would know it’s me, and I love to laugh. I
love to sit around a loaded dinner table and hear stories of people’s lives and
discover what formed them and transformed them. I love to hear stories of their
disastrous first dates, and stories of their first real love. I like to tell
stories, sometimes enhanced for the benefit of the listener, and hear others
laugh. Dying slowly has given me the gift of making sure that I have time to
laugh. One of my daughter’s friends, who is much loved by our family, talked
about what it was like to have dinner with us after my diagnosis. She said the
way we made sarcastic jokes about cancer and dying was a little awkward at
first, but soon she realized that she could jump right in and laugh with us.
That if you laugh at something you take away its power to overwhelm you. Maybe
that is why I laugh at life so often, so it doesn’t overwhelm me. I know that’s
why I laugh at death and cancer so often, because I refuse to give into the
dark shadows that linger on the edges and try to steal my joy and rob me of
laughter. I pray that I laugh up until the day I die. I am going to laugh as
much as I can until I am laughing in the presence of Jesus. I want to laugh as
much as I can, as long as I can. Do you?
Dying slowly is a gift because it reminds me that I still have
time to live. We get so busy living that we forget we are all dying. Some of us
are just dying more quickly than others. We forget to go on vacation, or to
enjoy the moment, or to just have ice cream. One of the amazing things that has
happened since I’ve discovered that I’m dying is that I have become even more
passionate about living. I think my passion for life has inspired some others
to help me live as passionately as I can for as long as I can. I have had
people I don’t know send me gifts and offer me opportunities to check some
things off my bucket list that would have never occurred had I not been dying.
You know what? I’m actually going to receive those gifts with thanksgiving.
Gifts I would have never accepted before because as somebody who has tried to
live his whole life with an open heart, with open hands, and with an open home
I know what a blessing it is to bless others. I know in my life my biggest
blessings have come from what I have given away, not what I have received so I
want them to have that kind of life blessing as well! I have some time to live
and I want to live it up for as much time as I have left. Don’t you?
Dying slowly is a gift because it reminds me that I still
have time to love. I have taken to reminding everyone I encounter to “love
deeply.” If anything this whole dying thing has caused me to be more open with
my expressions of affection with people I might otherwise have never told. I am
a man, you know, and we aren’t all that good at expressing affection sometimes.
Especially to other dudes, but what the heck, I’m dying. So I tell my “dude”
friends that I love them because I want them to know that they are special to
me. I tell my friends I love them. I tell my kids I love them. I tell my wife a
hundred times a day that I love her, because it seems to me that I need to give
out about forty years of love in about four or five years. I want the people
around me to feel my love for them in whole new ways. While I am still able to
share it, I want to live with arms wide open and share my heart with as many
people as I can. You see I can love because I have been loved. I am loved by
friends and family. I am loved so much by my wife that it seems some days I can
barely contain it, more than I deserve. My greatest desire is to return that
love. Most of all I am loved by a Savior whose stripes and scars have made a
way for my healing and allows me to be freed from my own sin, situations, and
scars and to show love like he showed love.
Dying slowly is a gift. My gift may be opened sooner than
yours but I want to remind you of something. You are dying slowly as well.
Don’t wait until you find yourself suddenly approaching the end of your life to
laugh, live, and love. Do it now. Do it today. Go to dinner with friends, or
make new ones, and laugh. Bungee jump, or learn to surf, or do whatever it is
that you’ve not done that will remind you to live. But most of all, love. Love
deeply. Take the chance to live your life with open arms and give away as much
love as you can because love is the one thing that the more you give, the more
that comes flooding back to you.
Gracious God, forgive
me for being so busy with life that I forget to live. Help me to receive the
gift of dying slowly that I might spend my days laughing, living, and loving.
In the name of the one who gave us the gift of life, and life eternal, Jesus, I
pray. Amen
