Stuart Adamson is a member of our 9am congregation and Associate Dean of Chaplaincy and Spiritual Care at Morling College. He contributes a meditation of the old prayer ‘in the midst of life we are in death’, and the hope we have. Thanks Stuart.
My advice - take a moment to take in the camellias first, and slow….right….down.
They say things come in threes. I think that if you look hard enough they come in fours, fives and sixes. Maybe even in numberless infinities.
I left my house again today and ventured out. (It’s Monday) Just to stretch my legs, and to breathe. You understand.
Past the camellia bush. Past the fallen petals that once were blushing buds, full of promise. Full of life. A time to reflect.
I got the strangest message the other day. From a former student. About three in the afternoon. On Friday.
Stage four liver cancer.
Inoperable.
Six weeks to live.
(Not that short, but close)
“I’ll see you in glory, Stuart”, the text ended.
“Can I call?”
“The last visitor stayed a bit too long. I’m wiped. Sorry hon, maybe another time. “
Maybe.
Her aches persist. Her hope will prevail.
The wind blows. Another petal loosens it’s grip and prepares for its silent journey.
Two years that same Friday a colleague‘s husband fell.
Four weeks from diagnosis.
No answers.
No insights.
No treatment.
Just made him “as comfortable as possible”.
The petal fell, leaving an aching “How could a loving God.....?”
Right alongside the sure hope.
(Strange bedfellows indeed)
On Saturday morning, there we were, together on the couch, facing the camellia.
The rain fell.
The wind blew cold.
The blooms are ragged now.
Just hanging on.......
The live cross was to honour a Japanese man I knew. A brother.
I teach his wife. A sister.
(His name meant righteous.)
From the moment he believed, the Lord was with him. (Everything would be alright).
A service dotted with testimonies to the miraculous, like the sparkling sea at the Dawn of a new day.
The eldest bore witness.
“He showed me how to die with hope”.
(His own illness will test that in time.)
And the ache persists. And the hope prevails.
Another petal falls.
In double quick time.
And then I hear about a colleague‘s mother, suffering for some time, who slipped away in the Lord.
On Friday night.
(Why this cursed Friday? )
The wind blows.
The pink is now a carpet.
And again, a phone call from a man I once met. Again, on Friday.
“I remembered you were a chaplain, Stuart. I’ve been praying for this fellow who has no assurance, he’s been trusting in his own efforts, and his daughter has asked me to pray. I’ve been praying for months and now his last days are upon him. What should I do Stuart? “
“Thanks for the advice. Apparently he slipped into a coma last night. “
Just a dull ache this time.
The camellia bush seems almost bare now.
And Sunday came.
Acts chapter 9 was always about Saul’s conversion.
(The ground is a sea of pink this morning)
But the passage for my quiet time went further.
Past the road to Damascus,
Past the risen Christ.
All the way to Tabitha.
(Ah, Sunday!)
I walk past the pink and open the door.
I stretch. I breathe.
And the ache persists. But the hope prevails.
Home.