Thankful for the Blood

Three years ago this March 30th, I had surgery to remove a cancerous prostate. My surgeon pointed out later I would have been dead within two years without the surgery. But he also told me that I needed two blood transfusions during surgery, without which I would not have survived the operation.

In my upcoming book, Prostate Surgery: My Story of Survival, due out early summer, I describe my feelings that first Easter shortly after surgery. They were a sharp reminder my cancer of sin could not be removed without the divine blood that flowed at Calvary. Here is an excerpt from that book.

But Easter, traditionally the period remembering Christ’s death and resurrection, had particular meaning for me following surgery. It feels a little peculiar to think that I had someone else’s blood flowing through my arteries and veins during surgery. Although I had been a blood donor most of my life, I was particularly grateful for the one who donated blood for me. The parallel is all too clear: I am eternally grateful for the blood that was given for me at the cross. Human blood gives me existence, but the life that has ultimate meaning for me is the transcendent life gained through the blood of Jesus Christ shed for me.

As Ann and I attend good Friday service this morning, our gratitude to God for His sacrifice on our behalf, will be heightened by recalling this experience again.

Discipline or Inspiration

 

Some of you were alert enough to notice my blog for last Sunday was missing. If you didn't, welcome back anyway. I simply forgot in the busyness of that weekend. That Sunday was the dedication of our latest grandchild, Matteo—number eight—in Ottawa and blogs were lost in the shuffle.

I blog once a week for personal discipline, which in some ways is a contradiction. How can writing which needs inspiration be a discipline? If I have to wait for inspiration, when do I write? But if I write without inspiration, am I saying anything meaningful?

I have to admit, some Sundays I open up this file not knowing what to write—a common occurrence known as writer’s block. But if I’m to continue this as a discipline, then I have to write something. How do I resolve this dilemma?

Strangely, inspiration often comes in the process of doing. This is true of any project, not just writing. To start, I may have only a flicker of an idea, but as I write, further thoughts come to mind, and the idea starts to expand into—I trust—something meaningful.

Of course, sometimes inspiration comes as a bolt from outside, forcing me to write. But discipline can also be a source of inspiration. For instance, is this piece is inspired? you be the judge. But at least it should provide some fresh ideas on the relationship between discipline and inspiration.

Moreover, it should prompt further ideas of your own on the subject. If it does, share them with us.

Next weekend is Easter, and I have some thoughts (inspiration?) to share with you on both Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Join me then.

LIFE IS FRAGILE

Life is fragile. In the last week or so I’ve had reason to be reminded.

First, I met up with our latest grandson, Matteo, born before his due date by C section and so very small. For the first two weeks, the paediatrician was concerned because he gained little weight. That the small body contained all the organs sufficient to sustain human life is a miracle. Yet it is frail enough to visualise life ebbing away too easily.

Second, this week I completed the initial draft of a book describing my journey through Prostate Cancer. It was a reminder, that without medical intervention, I would be dead now. Add to that an acute heart attack eighteen months later and a surgical implant within twenty four hours: a second brush with death.

As I look at how we live and the hazards all around us, I marvel that any of us survive past ten years of age. Yet, even recognizing that, there are times when we feel we will live forever, a deceiving sense that life is secure and all that we desire is within our reach.

Perhaps it is that deceiving spirit that keeps us from preparing for death. The continuing reminders all around us should alert us to be prepared for the next life. All the effort we make to ensure a healthy body, gain financial security, see our family provided for, and take every safety precaution, are meaningless if we are unprepared for what follows death.

It never ceases to amaze me that the provision available in Jesus Christ for assurance in the next life is ignored by the majority. There is eternal wisdom in Jesus’ words: “What good will it be for a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul? (Matthew 16:26).

Life on the Mississippi

When you hear references to the Mississippi River, your mind, like mine, probably goes to the gulf coast, river boats, hot weather or the Ku Klux Klan. The last place you would think of is Ottawa. Yet the Mississippi River runs through a delightful small town called Carleton Place, about 20 minutes drive from Ottawa.

And this is not a narrow headwater, as you might imagine, but a mighty river already, at least a 100 meters wide at its narrowest points, and billowing out to huge lagoons as it curves its way through the Ontario countryside.

The old town boasts an original weir, and an original mill house. Frame, stone, and brick houses of a past era dot its banks. The narrow main street exudes old town charm, quaint shops invite exploring and serene scenery offers refreshing walks along the river bank. But it is changing.

A new four lane highway from Ottawa invites bedroomers from the Capital to relocate, and the big box stores have laid claim to prime selling spots on the outskirts. Several thousand homes are planned for the town and huge billboards invite Mississippi River living in new condos built along its banks.

Residents of this town love living here and face a confident future, whatever malaise is perceived for Canada’s economy. As our youngest daughter, husband, five year old, and ten day old sons settle here from Quebec, we wish them every blessing as they start new life in Carleton Place.