Personal Blogs
A Year to Live — and a Psalm to Hold on To
Thoughts on Cancer and the High Road to Loch Lomond
The High Road and the Low Road: A Journey to Loch Lomond
On Wednesday evening, my wife and I set out for Balmaha on the banks of Loch Lomond. Drawn by the dual promise of celestial splendour and dawn's first light breaking over the rugged highlands. Our trip was spurred by something more urgent than mere wanderlust—my recent diagnosis with terminal cancer, which has sharpened our focus on seizing the moments that remain.
Loch Lomond isn't just a place of natural beauty; it's a sanctuary where each vista and shifting cloud seems orchestrated to remind us of life's transient, precious nature. As the night sky surrendered to sunrise, I felt a profound connection to the Creator, an assurance that despite the uncertainties of my health, there remains a greater plan at work.
During our visit, the echoes of "Loch Lomond" filled my mind—the haunting lyrics about parting ways, taking different roads through life and beyond. "O you'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road, and I'll be in Scotland before you." The song, a poignant anthem of farewell, resonated deeply, reflecting our current crossroads. It was as if the high road was my impending journey beyond this life, while the low road was the here and now with my wife.
This melody, which has always stirred the soul, now underscored our experience with its profound symbolism. It wasn't just background music; it was a narrative woven into the fabric of our visit, a narrative about love, parting, and the passages we all must navigate.
Standing there, with the dawn light washing over the loch and mountains, I was struck by a mix of grief and gratitude. Grief, for the days that will be no more, and gratitude for the immeasurable beauty and joy that have filled my days. Each moment by the loch was a moment stolen back from fate, a declaration that even in the face of life's end, we can find reasons to cherish and celebrate.
Our journey back home was quiet, reflective. We spoke little, but our hands found each other often, a silent language of support and mutual strength. The road, both literal and metaphorical, stretched out before us, each mile a step towards whatever awaits.
As we navigate this chapter, the lesson of Loch Lomond remains with us: to embrace each day with vigour, to find solace in nature's embrace, and to love fiercely in the face of the unknown. Even as I consider the roads we take—the high ones and the low—the journey is as beautiful as it is heart-breaking, filled with the promise of love’s enduring presence.
When a man dies, will he live again?
All the days of my hard service I will wait,
until my renewal comes.
Job 14:14 (BSB)
The Value of Time: Navigating Relationships in the Face of Terminal Illness
You Have a Year to Live, What Will you Do With It?
“There’s a young man inside me.
He has followed me around all his life.
His age, I do not know, but
he is always there
He comforts me
and his presence
convinces me
God has eternity in view for me”
Last autumn, I went through a series of medical examinations. Then came the day to see the consultant for the results.
That morning, my wife and I read our usual scripture together—Psalm 91:1–2:
He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High
Will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say to the Lord, “You are my refuge and my fortress,
My God, in whom I trust.”
I turned to her and said quietly, “We are going to get bad news today.”
She agreed, her face pensive.
God has often spoken to us through scripture in ways that feel precise, almost personal—as if the right verse lands in our lap just when it is needed. And sure enough, that day the news confirmed what I had already sensed: the faithful cells in my prostate had turned hostile, rebelling and spreading to the pancreas and liver—and perhaps beyond.
The consultant, a kind Asian man, looked worried that I hadn’t fully grasped the gravity of what he was telling me.
“You are very bravado about this?” he asked gently.
“There’s a young man inside me,” I replied. “He has followed me all my life. His age, I do not know, but he is always there. He comforts me, and his presence convinces me that God has eternity in view for me.”
We came home that afternoon and read the whole of Psalm 91. Both of us felt a deep sense of peace. I have never experienced what the Germans call Torschlusspanik—that sense of the gates closing in. Instead, I wake each morning with a miraculous calm, the kind that only God and Christ can give.
Contentment and Gratitude
The first thing I needed was space. When word spreads that you have a terminal illness, people from your past often want to speak with you. But I am a solitary person by nature, one who needs time to reflect and put life in order.
A year has almost passed since that day. Who knows what the next will bring? Yes, the side effects of treatment are wearying—tiredness, intrusive thoughts, dry eyes, and other discomforts—but my wife and I have not lost our joy.
We are grateful for what we have accomplished this year: the quiet beauty of summer in Scotland, the camping trips, the people we met along the way, and the opportunities to share our faith.
Exercise and nature remain restorative companions. Cancer and stress are not harmonious bedfellows, so I carefully guard my peace and cherish it.
I still take pleasure in reading and in writing my book What It Means to Be Human each day. Like the ancient cave painters who pressed their handprints onto the stone, I write to leave a mark—a reminder that I was here, that I lived, that I believed.
Life is a journey, but the destination can be determined—through God’s undeserved kindness.
When a man dies, will he live again?
All the days of my hard service I will wait,
until my renewal comes.
—Job 14:14 (BSB)
"Renewal", a wonderful concept.
Image by Copilot
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