The Morning Fog
“How do you know what your life will be like tomorrow? Your life is like the morning fog—it’s here a little while, then it’s gone.”
James 4:14 (NLT)
I’m a little stunned as I type. Forgive any typos, I am writing this unusually fast and without much proofreading.
A precious man I met just a couple of months ago passed away. I am completely blindsided. I really shouldn’t be, but I am. You may be asking why I shouldn’t be, so let me explain.
I podcast weekly (almost). I write blog posts, articles, and have a book I am working feverishly to complete. I preach almost anywhere that I receive an invitation. I even have my hands full with The Furnace, which is still in its infancy stage. I have minister friends around the country that I talk with regularly. But there is something else that I do, Monday though Friday…
I am a Hospice Chaplain.
Each week I am privileged to observe as CNA’s, Nurses, Social Workers, facility teams, and even more importantly, family members push back their own pain and struggles, processing their personal lives and emotions as they roll up their sleeves to give the best love and tender care that they can to our precious Hospice Patients. Sometimes there is no family, and a loving friend steps in and becomes family.
My ‘ministry’ began I guess when I was sixteen years old and stepped up onto the back of my truck and preached my first message, having only been a Christian for a couple of weeks. I’ve now traveled and ministered across 35 states and 12 countries, and have shared quite a few platforms with some tremendous men and women of God. But there is not one thing I can think of on this side of eternity that compares with being with people as they prepare to move to the other side of it.
I can tell you what it is like holding the hand of a precious woman as she gazed in my eyes after praying for her, letting her know her family was going to be ok, and then feeling her hand slowly pull back as she drew her last breath. I have felt the grief of sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, friends, as they groaned, wept, shouted, and then have marveled as they become enveloped with the grace of God that so tenderly carries them through. I have also experienced His incomprehensible grace as He has carried me and my family through loss, heartache, and tragedy as well.
As far back as I can remember I’ve always been moved with compassion for…anyone really. Even the worst of mankind. I’ve been around plenty of people that lack mercy, somehow forgetting their own personal failures and shortcoming. I am grateful for my confidence in the redeeming mercy that is found in the blood of the Lamb, and desperately need it.
Concerning this man…
He had recently moved to one of the facilities that I visit. Arriving at the place, I made sure I had everything I needed, all of the proper paperwork, looked up his room number and began walking down the hall. I said a quiet prayer to myself as I prepared to knock on the door, like I have possibly hundreds of times over the last 20 months…
Please understand that I am in no way an expert Chaplain, but I am grateful for the decades of ministry that have brought much preparation to the table, and for the mentorship of Dr. Dave McKinney, Chaplain extraordinaire, and for the ongoing coaching in our amazing company, Regional Hospice (thank you for giving me an opportunity Toni Camp!).
After knocking softly his voice gently said, “Come on in.”
And there he was. Sitting in his recliner with his bed neatly made and covered with picture frames, art, a well used Bible, and some folded clothes. He shook my hand, inviting me to have a seat. I was amazed with his ability to have a healthy sense of humor concerning his situation. His smile lit up the room and even brought encouragement to my soul. He was soft-spoken and gentle. The depth of the Word inside of him and the manner in which he spoke reminded me of my many visits with David Ravenhill in his living room. This first visit lasted close to two hours, and before I left, I realized something that I have only felt with one other patient; I was not there for him. He was there for me.
Before I left his room I knew I needed to share this with him…
“Sir, I know this must be difficult for you, and this is a serious adjustment in your life. But I need to tell you something. I believe the Lord allowed you to be here at this time, and brought me here at such a time, because there is something you have for me. I am not here for you, you are here for me.”
He immediately dropped his head into his hands and sobbed gently, and tears began to run down my cheeks as well. I asked him to do something I’ve only asked one other to do; pray for me.
He dropped his head and wept again.
Taking my hand, he squeezed it, allowing a solid minute to pass before he began to whisper his prayer over me, praying for my family, my calling, my ministry, my life. He spoke over my present and my future. He prayed in such a way that was so simple, so profound, and so heartfelt.
I’ve visited with him quite a bit over the last couple of months, and was not scheduled to see him for another week, when this past Thursday a call came in from one of our amazing nurses, Shari; “I’m sitting here with someone who says you need to get over here!” I could hear him in the background taking some fun jabs at me, and told her to let him know I would be there before the day was over.
Walking into his room Thursday there was no way I could possibly know it would be my last visit with him on this earth. We laughed. We cut up. He picked on me a little, and I took it like a champ. Then he got quiet, and I felt he wanted to say something important. He asked me what inner turmoil was taking place inside of me, some decisions. He began to pastor me. It was about time for me to leave, and I reminded him (like I always did) that I couldn’t go until he prayed for me. I felt a little like Jacob wrestling with an angel all night, refusing to let go until he received a blessing. He laughed a little, and then took my hand like he always did, and prayed one of the most powerful prayers over my life…again. My family, my calling, my ministry, my life, my present, my future.. He prayed things that only the Lord could have shown him.
It was such an encounter that as I worked on my calendar late last night, I moved my next visit with him up a little sooner. But that meeting will not happen, not like I thought it would. This morning I found out my next visit with him will be when I see him on that wonderful and glorious day that I see Jesus face to face.
I am reminded that eternity is only a breath away. We only have this time right now to make our lives count. I am so grateful I made that visit last week, and I find myself wondering how many times I’ve let moments slip, never to be regained. Our lives are a vapor the Bible says, here today, gone tomorrow.
Life is too short to live filled with bitterness, regret, and with a bunch of shoulda, woulda, coulda’s on your list. Go and make that phone call. Make that visit. Forgive. Love. Try again. There is time…for now.
