Facing the Death-Dew

He lay, shrivelled and gaunt, under the sheets. It was hard to see him like that, this man who, all through my growing-up years, could do anything. He could carry a 50-lb backpack and lead a group of two dozen high school students up and down the hills of the Highland Hiking Trail in Algonquin. He could swing a canoe onto his shoulders and portage it with ease the two kilometres in to Gordon Lake from Rock Lake. He could carry a pack of shingles onto the roof and install them all with ease. And now, he lay, shrivelled and gaunt, withered away by the cancer he had battled for the last four-and-a-half years, and it was hard to see him like that.

He was conscious, but just barely, confused and petulant. It was hard to see him like that, this man who, all through my growing-up years, knew everything. He knew about the stars in the sky as we stared up at the pinpricks of light spread across the vast canvas of a northern Ontario summer sky. He'd use a flashlight to trace out Cassaeopea, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, and the various other constellations. He knew about the trees, the flowers, the animals. He knew which berries and mushrooms were good to eat and which ones would poison us. He knew about cars and computers and electrical circuits. He even knew how the milk got into the milk bags. We didn't believe him when he told us, but a letter to Neilson confirmed that he was right about that, too. And now, he lay, confused and petulant, his mind stretched and broken by the cancer that he had battled for the last four-and-a-half years, and it was hard to see him like that.

It was hard to see him like that. He lay there in that hospital bed, and I thought, My goodness, he looks so terrible. He looks more dead than alive. I stayed, I visited, I talked to him when he opened his eyes. I told him I loved him, kissed him goodnight and left him sleeping peacefully.

Just hours later, the phone rang.

The phone ringing in the dark of night is never a good thing, is it?

He was gone.

I drove through dark streets, shivering so hard I had to clench my teeth to keep them from rattling. You read about stuff like that in stories. I never knew it was a real thing. I rode the same elevator up, walked down the same hallway, into the same room, past the same guy in the other bed I'd passed on my way home, just hours earlier.

And I realised instantly that when I had left, he hadn't looked more dead than alive. As frail and as sick as he had been, he had looked very much alive.

And now he was dead.

The gossamer thread had snapped, and everything was different.

"I'll love thee in life, I will love thee in death,

And praise thee as long as thou lendest me breath.

And sing, when the death-dew lies cold on my brow,

If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now."

It is in the face of death that I realise how much my faith matters. If Jesus is not Lord in the face of death, he is not Lord at all. It is in looking down on that dear face, so alive just hours before, now slack-jawed and grey in death, that Jesus matters most. It is mostly easy to love Jesus in life, in mansions of glory and endless delight. It is somewhat doable to love him in trial, when there is still hope for renewal, when life still clings. But it is most necessary to love him in death, when there is nothing left but a dusty shell and the maw of the hole in the ground. Paul says it this way: "If in Christ we have hope in this life only, we are of all people most to be pitied" (1 Corinthians 15:19).

It is when I face death that my faith matters most.

Because when I see the death-dew cold on the brow, I catch a glimpse of the full horror of the enemy. I see him in all his undisguised hideousness, his unabashed bent for destruction. No more masquerading as an angel of light, he is revealed plainly in all his grotesque horror. Never again will I think him a joke, a red-tights-wearing, pitchfork-toting, shoulder-perching cartoon. He is a beast, a monster, a vile and repulsive demon.

We hide from that horror. We cover it up. We try not to talk about it. But when you have seen it once, you never forget. Death is the last enemy, the evil one's last laugh, and if Jesus is not Lord in the face of that desperate evil, he is not Lord at all.

But he IS Lord. And in the face of death, I know it. With as much certainty as I know the horror of death, I know the power of Jesus. "But in fact." But. Death is the devil's last laugh, BUT. "But in fact, Christ has been raised from the dead" (1 Corinthians 15:20). But in fact, death may be the devil's last laugh, but it is not God's last word. And God gets the final word. But in fact, Christ has been raised from the dead, and death is an enemy being destroyed.

Take that, filthy nightmare.

It is in the face of death that my faith matters most. It is in the face of death that I see most clearly the battle lines between the vileness of the evil one and the greatness of my Jesus. I love thee in life, I will love thee in death.

Because Christ has been raised from the dead, the "firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep" (1 Corinthians 15:20). Just the first. We all will follow. All those last-laughs of the evil one will be God's final word. "All shall be made alive" (v. 22). The gossamer thread will be restored, never again to be broken. Risen, redeemed, restored.

Because Christ has been raised from the dead. Lord, in the face of death. Lord, even then. Lord, especially then. Lord now.

If ever I loved thee, my Jesus, 'tis now.