The Twenty-Third Night

 

Few things trouble me as deeply as the fragility of life.

I’ve always preferred things that are stable, enduring. This business of feeling well one moment and then unwell five minutes later—it’s such a bother.

Wednesday night fell peacefully, and I went to sleep in good health; by Thursday morning, I awoke with a sore, inflamed throat. The quiet of the night gave way to the discomfort of the following morning.

Granted, it’s not the first time this has happened, and I know exactly what to do. My greatest fear, however, was the fever that always follows after a few days—and it can be a real nuisance for a while.

Well, the nuisance arrived Thursday afternoon. I left work and came home, where I’ve been ever since—Friday now—curled up beneath the blankets with a fever.

It’s unlikely I’ll die from this throat inflammation and its fever, but it is indeed a disruption. It’s like a buzzing fly that won’t let you be, especially when you're absorbed in something meaningful.

But I give thanks to God for it. I’ve lived alone for many, many years, and I’ve grown used to not depending on anyone. I enjoy my independence. Still, when people say they envy my single life because I’m free from the natural worries of marriage and children, I always respond: unlike those who are married, I’ll never know the joy of being greeted with kisses and smiles—nor have someone bring me a bowl of soup when I’m sick.

Too much independence can make a person too proud. And nothing is worse than someone who thinks they’re invincible, unstoppable—only to be laid low by some tiny invisible bug, or worse, the stupidity of a complete stranger.

It’s good to know that God loves me enough to offer these gentle reminders of my smallness.

When I was young, these moments were easier to endure. But now, in the autumn of my life, even a mild sore throat is enough to remind me of my mortality. This never occurred to me in my twenties—back then, death was a mere theory, never a fact. Youth is arrogant that way. How vital it is that young people grow old before it’s too late!

I remember when I was a boy, attending a Seventh-day Adventist school, and the teachers would warn us to live each day as if it were our last: “If you were to die today, what would you have to show God?” the teachers asked us.

As the years passed, I never completely forgot that advice, though in youth it faded into the background—only to return now with strength and truth.

Much more important than knowing how to live is knowing how to die. I’m absolutely convinced of that. I can think of no event more significant in one’s life than death—precisely because it is the only one that is inevitable, and completely beyond our control. We have no power over it whatsoever.

And for that, too, let us praise God.

If I were to die today, what would I have to show Him? A few good things, surely—hoping that, when placed on the scale against the many failings, the good might weigh more.

 

From the bedroom I hear Nick humming in the kitchen. Suddenly, he calls out:

"Soup’s ready, man!"

Then, a pause and an exclamation of delight:

"Yo, this stuff is actually awesome! Like, how the heck did I even pull this off?"

I laughed, still tucked in bed.

He came into the room carrying a steaming bowl on a tray, with croutons and cheese on the side.

"Dinner for the sick little dude is here!" he announced cheerfully. "And yeah, of course he’s gonna love this canned soup I heated up with, like, so much love!"

I laughed again—and gave thanks to God for His love for me.