Today is a special day. On August 21, 1977, a beautiful young bride, Nichole Ann Bovell, joined me at the altar of the Caribbean Union College church, where we pledged to love each other till death separated us. Earlier this year, we began planning a special 30th anniversary celebration – maybe a Caribbean cruise or doing some overseas travel without the kids who are now grown-up. We had frequently missed opportunities for anniversary celebrations as it seems that they always occurred during the first week of my college teaching and administrative responsibilities, or just as we were busy getting the children back to school after the summer vacation. This time it would be special. But this morning, I leave home early to continue my second phase of the chemotherapy, which began yesterday. Our plans were thwarted!
It was difficult to write those words as I ventured down the path of the unknown. One year later, the experience is still sharp in my memory. Although I trusted God to see me through this journey of faith, the future seemed dark, not only for survival of cancer, but enduring the excruciatingly painful accompanying experience. This year (August 21, 2008) I had a less intimidating medical appointment, a CT scan. I am reminded of another guided tour I took many years ago.
When my son Nicholas was about eight or nine years old, he attended a pathfinder’s summer camp at Camp Timber Ridge, Indiana. One Sabbath afternoon, Nichole and I went to visit the little campers and discovered them running though some caves and tunnels in the hillside that could barely accommodate a medium sized adult male. I watched as the kids entered the little holes and zipped through the exits a few minutes later. At Nick’s invitation, I attempted to go through the tunnel but was gripped by fear of being lost in its dark underworld or being stuck somewhere in the middle. After hesitating for a while, he grabbed my hand, looked at me in the eye and said, “Dad, I have been through these caves many times this afternoon and I know the way. Hold my hand and I will guide you through.” With my heartbeat increasing with every second, I held his hand and followed. “I will hold you! Keep your head down, don’t let go!” he shouted, as I followed him. After what seemed like an eternity, I could see a small glow of light illuminating the exit. I knew that I would soon safely make it through.
I am grateful to God for holding my hand and guiding me through the unknown. My recovery is still underway. I experience many side-effects of radiation and chemotherapy including, sleep apnea, trismus (restrictive movement of the jaw), xerostomia (dry mouth due to reduced saliva) and constriction of the trachea, among others. But I can see the light signalling the end. I can see the glow of the exit. I like the symbolism of the dawning of a new day and I am intrigued by the promise of Isa 60:20,22.
“Your sun will never set; your moon will not go down. For the Lord will be your everlasting light. Your day of mourning will come to an end. …At the right time, I, the Lord will make it happen.” (New Living Translation) or
“Your sun will no longer set; your moon will not disappear; the Lord will be your permanent source of light; your time of sorrow will be over. …When the right time comes, I the Lord will quickly do this!” (NETBible)
What a promise! I believe it. Do you?
Love and Blessings,
Len
