Personal Blogs

A Year to Live — and a Psalm to Hold on To

In September 2023, I was given a year to live.

Neuroendocrine cancer, which began quietly in the prostate, had spread its wings and made itself at home in my pancreas and liver. The words came gently from the doctor, but they shook the earth beneath me. How do you take news like that? There’s no script for it.

And yet… God had already written one.

The morning, I was due to receive my results, something extraordinary happened. Before I stepped into the hospital — before the diagnosis had a name or a timeline — God spoke to me through words I hadn’t sought, but that found me like a lifeline dropped into deep waters.

It was Psalm 91:1–2:

"He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.’"

I didn’t read those words casually. They were spoken into my spirit — not just read, but revealed. It was as if God said, “This is for you. For today. For what you’re about to hear.”

And He didn’t stop there.

Later that evening, my wife — who has walked every step of this with me — pointed out something I had overlooked. She had been reading the same Psalm, but her eyes were drawn to the closing verses:

“Because he loves Me, I will deliver him;
because he knows My name, I will protect him.
When he calls out to Me, I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble.
I will deliver him and honor him.
With long life I will satisfy him
and show him My salvation.” — Psalm 91:14–16

In her quiet way, she saw what I needed. God was not just speaking to me about protection — He was promising presence. Not just shelter, but companionship in trouble. Not just deliverance, but honor. And most tenderly of all, long life — whether in days or eternity — and salvation.

To anyone who is suffering, to anyone who has sat in that sterile room and heard the doctor say “cancer,” or who lies awake wondering what the future holds: I want you to know that God still speaks. And more than that — He stays.

Psalm 91 doesn't promise the absence of pain. It promises His presence in it. It promises that when we love Him, when we call on Him, He hears. He answers. He walks with us.

I may have been given a year, but I have been given far more — I have been given hope. Not wishful thinking, but anchored hope. And I want to pass that on to you.

Because you are not alone.

He is with you.

Image generated with the assistance of Micsosoft Copilot

"Mortality is a reminder that time is both fleeting and precious, 

urging us to cherish the connections we choose to keep."

Image generated with the assistance of  Microsoft Copilot

The Value of Time: Navigating Relationships in the Face of Terminal Illness

When you are faced with the reality of a terminal illness, time suddenly becomes an entirely different, unfamiliar  currency—a fleeting, invaluable resource to be spent with care. I have found myself weighing each connection, each interaction, with a new kind of gravity. This recalibration of priorities has led me to limit my relationships, not out of selfishness but from a deep awareness of what little time I have left and how best to use it. Yet, this choice, though deeply personal, has not gone unnoticed or uncontested or the subject of hyper criticism. That disappoints me. 

What strikes me most is how the news of a terminal diagnosis can pull people out of the woodwork, individuals who had faded into the periphery of my life, now reappearing with sudden urgency. It’s easy to cast judgment on this phenomenon, to view it cynically as a reaction borne of guilt, fear, or social expectation. But beneath these surface motivations, I’ve found a tangle of emotions and intentions that reveal something profoundly human.

Guilt, undoubtedly, is a significant factor. I see it in the faces of those who reconnect after years of silence. It’s as though the knowledge of my illness has held a mirror to their lives, reflecting the gaps and absences in our relationship. Perhaps they remember a kindness I offered, a shared moment now tinged with the regret of neglect. These pangs of remorse compel them to reach out, to atone for the distance they allowed to grow. And while I understand this instinct, I’ve also come to realize that guilt-driven connections often serve more as balm for their conscience than solace for mine.

Fear, too, plays its role. There’s a certain urgency that illness imposes, an unspoken countdown that presses on both the diagnosed and their circle. For those who have drifted, my situation becomes a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the opportunities they’ve let slip by. They come, not wanting to carry the burden of unresolved words or unspoken feelings. They want closure, or perhaps a chance to leave on better terms than the ones we’d resigned ourselves to. It’s a fear I understand, but one that can feel oddly transactional when viewed from this side of the table.

Then there is the weight of societal expectations, the unspoken rules that dictate how we should behave when illness strikes. People feel a duty to express their concern, to offer support, even if their presence has been sporadic or absent in the past. These gestures, though often well-meaning, can carry an air of obligation. There’s a script to follow: the phone call, the flowers, the promise to visit soon. While I’ve appreciated these overtures, they sometimes feel less like genuine connection and more like a box being checked, a societal norm being fulfilled.

As I’ve reflected on these reappearances, I’ve come to see that their motivations—guilt, fear, obligation—are not inherently negative. They are simply human. We are flawed creatures, stumbling through relationships with a mix of selfishness and sincerity. What matters most, I’ve found, is not why someone reconnects but what they bring to the table when they do. Are they present, willing to engage honestly, or merely passing through to ease their own discomfort?

For my part, I’ve chosen to focus on the relationships that feel reciprocal, where time spent together is a shared gift rather than a one-sided act of absolution. This doesn’t mean I’ve shut the door on others; I’ve simply chosen to prioritize the connections that align with the values I hold closest: authenticity, mutual respect, and the ability to be fully present in the moment.

The Gift of Time

If there is one lesson I’d share from this experience, it is the profound importance of treasuring time and being intentional with it. For those who find themselves on the receiving end of these sudden reconnections, it is okay to set boundaries, to choose where and with whom to spend your precious hours. And for those reaching out, I would urge sincerity—not out of guilt, not out of obligation, but out of a genuine desire to be part of a moment that truly matters rather than causing added frustration by firing surface judgements. 

In the end, relationships, like life itself, are finite. They are imperfect, complicated, and sometimes messy. But within their imperfection lies their beauty: the chance to connect, to forgive, and to find meaning even in the shadow of mortality.