In the first act get your principal character up a tree;
in the second act, throw stones at him.
Anonymous
When I first paused Our Daily Fred, I had no idea that the intermission would be months long. All I knew at the time was that the first act was over and that the second act—if there were one—would introduce complications. What those complications might be, I could not say, but I did know that the second act could not simply be more of the first. A plot that does not thicken makes for a thin soup.
And then something unexpectedly appeared early on in the break. A medical examination for a minor issue led to the discovery of a nodule on my thyroid. The radiologist noted certain features that warranted a biopsy, and so one was scheduled for a couple of weeks later. The results of the biopsy would come in a week or so after that. Those weeks were spiritually intense for me. I wasn’t afraid of dying; as the 17th century poet and cleric John Donne wrote, one short sleep past, we wake eternally. More than once during those days I pondered the sweet relief of laying down the burdens of this broken world. For those in Christ, death means untroubled rest until the day of resurrection.
Even so, the real possibility that my lifespan was to be far shorter than I had projected was problematic. I didn’t fear death, but I didn’t welcome it either. In fact, an early exit didn’t fit into my plans at all. I still had things to do. More importantly, I was convinced that there were people who needed me to stick around—and I don’t mean in an emotional attachment kind of way. It was bigger than that. For over a decade I have taken seriously the call to prayer and its power to help others. I have been committed to “stand in the gap” for those who needed an extra shot of grace. Dead men don’t pray. I needed to remain above ground so that, like Jesus, I might live to intercede for them. For some of them, at least, my secret labors were vital.
But the uncertainty about my long-term prospects also served to focus my attention on the phenomenon of death itself. Of course, like nearly everyone, I had long acknowledged the academic fact of death, but now I faced the hard proximity of it. Theory had become reality; the hypothetical had become nodule. I realized that, ultimately, neither fervent faith nor earnest prayer could revoke the irrevocable judgment: it is appointed for man to die once. Like it or not, I had to play the cards I’d been dealt.
I wondered if this was the complication that would spark the second act. Would Our Daily Fred become one of those pathos-drenched accounts that documents the author’s “courageous battle” to its poignant, inescapable end? Would I want to add my voice to that woeful genre? Would I want to spend my last energies crafting a self-portrait of admirable nobility in the face of certain defeat? Or would I decline to strut and fret my last hours upon the stage, pull the plug on Our Daily Fred, then privately wend my way to dusty death? How Shakespearian.
Beyond the potential drama of it all, dying responsibly takes planning. My rude awakening prompted me to put my affairs in order, which, I confess, I should have done 25 years ago when I started gallivanting around the world. I revised my will and completed an advance directive which were witnessed and notarized. I compiled an extensive list of important contacts, contracts, accounts, passwords, and other vital data for easy reference. I also jotted some thoughts about a memorial (no marching band) and my preferences concerning those blunt but necessary end of life arrangements. To have all these things finally written down and safely filed was a major relief.
Yet I was in no way resigned to an imminent departure. As I waited for the results of the biopsy, I doubled down in prayer and listened carefully to what God might have to say. On one hand, I was encouraged by many reassurances that God heard my cries and would deliver me. On the other, there were as many reminders that I needed to trust him no matter what hit the fan. I found myself see-sawing between “Let this cup pass from me” and “Not my will but yours.” In spite of my confidence in the mercies of the Lord, a cloud hung over those days. To be sure, there were days of quiet joy and peace, but there were many that drained my faith to the dregs.
And then the test results were posted to my online chart. I hesitated. Should I end the uncertainty by checking the results myself or wait for my doctor to follow up which could take a few more days? It so happened that an acquaintance, who was being treated for a heart condition and was unaware of my situation, mentioned that he had recently looked at his test results a day before he was scheduled to meet with his doctor. The results seemed terrible. He couldn’t sleep all that night and came to his appointment deeply dispirited. His doctor looked over the results and told him that everything looked good. My friend was surprised and answered that what he had seen didn’t seem very good at all. His doctor frowned and barked, “Don’t look at that stuff!”
And so I decided to wait until my own physician delivered the verdict himself. But I didn’t simply wait it out. Instead, I returned to my prayer closet, knowing that even now nothing was impossible for God. I cried out for deliverance even as I steeled myself for the worst. Two days later I received an early morning notification that my doctor had left me a message. With a deep breath I opened the message and read: I have reviewed this test result. Great news! The thyroid biopsy shows benign thyroid tissue.
And just like that, Act II had begun.
