“I think it’s almost graduation time”, he told me, in low, almost inaudible, winded tone. He confided grim words I had not heard in a long while. Graduating? Words, sometimes, color reality a shade differently. I knew it was not what he literally meant. Without looking at him, I responded solemnly, “It’s not for us to say when; it might not happen soon.”
We were under the shade of a row of juvenile trees. The sky was dappled and flecked with straying clouds. I was sitting beside him on a wooden bench and he was on a modified stretcher, an assistive device commonly used by patients while lying prone, accessing independently throughout the more than a hectare wide facility. Paralyzed from chest down, he was not the same man to look at, not the one he used to be. He was once a deep sea fisherman, a compressor diver, to be specific, with crude diving implements and an expert in spear fishing. Regrettably, in one of those treacherous trips underwater he suffered an accident called Caisson’s disease or diver’s paralysis. This happens when a diver who had been beneath the sea long enough suddenly comes back to the surface where significant amount of nitrogen bubbles form in the tissues of the body, and on his case bubbles formed in his spinal cord, thereby, causing paralysis. It also produces severe pain in joints and muscles on which account it is also called the “bends”. The incident transpired almost two decades ago.
What can be seen at that time of our conversation were his emaciated body, gaunt look and eye balls almost protruding from his skull, clearly articulating the truth of what he was telling. His skin was ashen gray and cyanotic. And plague with chronic pressure sores, deep, winding and refusing to heal. I knew he was dying; infection had already reached his bloodstream, and several of his organs had already failed.
It was nearing four o’clock in the afternoon when I came to have a talk with him. And when he spoke those words, I tried to be evasive knowing the answer was best untold. I cannot level with him without any cushion of such heavy blow, and what was needed at that time was silence. And silence is prudence. I was afraid it would further deteriorate his condition if I answer injudiciously, for I discerned that he already knew the truth. It was hard, pressing on the obvious. Every patient in the facility also knew but was tightlipped about it, feeling powerless to help and resigned to the fact.
I changed the focus of our exchanges with yarns about the sea, the islands, and the excitement of working underwater. In an instant, his face lit as if his blurred mind had clarity on things he loved so much. Diving and fishing stories buoyed and lightened our discourse, somehow freeing him temporarily of the intermittent pain he felt in his body, and inconspicuously, the fear of death visible in his eyes. Observing him, there were long silences, lengthy empty stares to nowhere and he refrained from speaking every so often, almost a voluntary switch towards melancholy.
I went home a bit disturbed. Though having trained myself isolating emotions from work, this feeling came remarkably strange and it moved me differently, maybe because he was someone I knew for a long time. This had happened before but not at this horizon. It seemed like life’s strings strummed the precise notes. For the longest time, I was also avoiding realities of death, sicknesses, though surrounded with ailing people all the time. Quite the irony, I humbly admit. I was considering only the sunny side of life, which was good, but secretly refusing to look at the darkness of our fallen world, along with the brevity of life intersected with its innate uncertainties and the unexpected. I keep on forgetting that I am a pilgrim on this earth.
Pilgrims.
Pilgrims, that’s what I believe we are. And the identity of who we are. On this earth, we are sojourners, transient travelers, not permanent residents; for we recognize that these clay bodies will one day wear out, subjugated to aging and decay. We are wanderers under the leading of Christ; neither are we blindly led, nor drifting aimlessly. We are pilgrims on a journey, well aware we’re going.
Liable to the allurement of this world, we are apt in forgetting that our stay here is temporary. Oftentimes, our misconception that we have unlimited supply of time results in our misuse or even abuse in the use of our God given time. We are reminded that our lives are but a shadow (Job 8:9). Like mist of the morning, we easily evaporate at midday and are no more (James 4:14). Like seeds growing in rocky soil, we withered away under the scorching sun (Mark 4:6). Relying always at tomorrow’s promise reflects our inappropriate deducing that time is always available. But wisdom is justified by her children. We have a fixed and appointed stay. And ought to use our precious time prudently (Eph. 5:15-16).
We are not building earthly houses with fixation of permanence, neither are we gathering treasures for the long haul but rather we are merely pitching our tents, flimsy and insubstantial, that when it’s time to go, we fold our dwellings and go straight our way. Our sight is on that heavenly city, like the Patriarchs of old, who by faith desires that which is enduring and everlasting (Heb.11:13-16).
Our stay here is an admixture of joys and sorrows, tears and laughter, the holding of hands and letting go. The glaring evidences reflect in our faces at the slow, certain departure, one after the other, of our family members, acquaintances, friends and relatives, and in how we grieve for them. Also, the clear inevitables of aging, and the unavoidable ravages of diseases that eat away our earthly tents pronounced the destiny of all. One can only surmise the reasons why those saints in their sunset years, longed with fondness their celestial home.
Pilgrims travel light. Those who set their eyes on eternity know that the baggages they carry are but an encumbrance on their journey. Resembling Christian in John Bunyan’s allegory, we are carrying unnecessary load. Not only it bugged us down, it makes us miserable, tired, and overly burdened. What, then, are pilgrims supposed to do? The Bible is replete with truths of our identity. We are not only children of God, redeemed by grace, beloved and blessed, but likewise are pilgrims. Jesus spoke of loving our enemies (Matt. 5:44), forgiving those who offends us (Matt. 6:12,14), refraining ourselves from judging others (Luke 6:37), casting our cares on Him and to cease from worrying (Matt. 6:25-30), seeking God first (Matt. 6:33) and not holding any grudge and lusting after this world. These are our codes for living which ultimately free us from the baggage of being terrestrial. Our fears, our hate, our angers and jealousies, in the long run, through the eyes of eternity are insignificant like minute sands in our toes.
A week after our little talk, the patient-friend requested that he be sent home to be with his family and relatives. After a month, I received the news that he passed away. In the quiet hill of his island home, he was laid to rest, and finally ended his terrestrial journey. Death, truly, is an eye-opener. Grief’s a timely reminder and being at the house of mourning, a teacher of wisdom. In his Psalm, Moses reminded us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom (Ps. 90:12). And true wisdom dictates that we ought to know who we are, where we are going, and Who we’re with – and for us believers, that is, the LORD Jesus Christ, our greatest Companion from earth to glory.
We were under the shade of a row of juvenile trees. The sky was dappled and flecked with straying clouds. I was sitting beside him on a wooden bench and he was on a modified stretcher, an assistive device commonly used by patients while lying prone, accessing independently throughout the more than a hectare wide facility. Paralyzed from chest down, he was not the same man to look at, not the one he used to be. He was once a deep sea fisherman, a compressor diver, to be specific, with crude diving implements and an expert in spear fishing. Regrettably, in one of those treacherous trips underwater he suffered an accident called Caisson’s disease or diver’s paralysis. This happens when a diver who had been beneath the sea long enough suddenly comes back to the surface where significant amount of nitrogen bubbles form in the tissues of the body, and on his case bubbles formed in his spinal cord, thereby, causing paralysis. It also produces severe pain in joints and muscles on which account it is also called the “bends”. The incident transpired almost two decades ago.
What can be seen at that time of our conversation were his emaciated body, gaunt look and eye balls almost protruding from his skull, clearly articulating the truth of what he was telling. His skin was ashen gray and cyanotic. And plague with chronic pressure sores, deep, winding and refusing to heal. I knew he was dying; infection had already reached his bloodstream, and several of his organs had already failed.
It was nearing four o’clock in the afternoon when I came to have a talk with him. And when he spoke those words, I tried to be evasive knowing the answer was best untold. I cannot level with him without any cushion of such heavy blow, and what was needed at that time was silence. And silence is prudence. I was afraid it would further deteriorate his condition if I answer injudiciously, for I discerned that he already knew the truth. It was hard, pressing on the obvious. Every patient in the facility also knew but was tightlipped about it, feeling powerless to help and resigned to the fact.
I changed the focus of our exchanges with yarns about the sea, the islands, and the excitement of working underwater. In an instant, his face lit as if his blurred mind had clarity on things he loved so much. Diving and fishing stories buoyed and lightened our discourse, somehow freeing him temporarily of the intermittent pain he felt in his body, and inconspicuously, the fear of death visible in his eyes. Observing him, there were long silences, lengthy empty stares to nowhere and he refrained from speaking every so often, almost a voluntary switch towards melancholy.
I went home a bit disturbed. Though having trained myself isolating emotions from work, this feeling came remarkably strange and it moved me differently, maybe because he was someone I knew for a long time. This had happened before but not at this horizon. It seemed like life’s strings strummed the precise notes. For the longest time, I was also avoiding realities of death, sicknesses, though surrounded with ailing people all the time. Quite the irony, I humbly admit. I was considering only the sunny side of life, which was good, but secretly refusing to look at the darkness of our fallen world, along with the brevity of life intersected with its innate uncertainties and the unexpected. I keep on forgetting that I am a pilgrim on this earth.
Pilgrims.
Pilgrims, that’s what I believe we are. And the identity of who we are. On this earth, we are sojourners, transient travelers, not permanent residents; for we recognize that these clay bodies will one day wear out, subjugated to aging and decay. We are wanderers under the leading of Christ; neither are we blindly led, nor drifting aimlessly. We are pilgrims on a journey, well aware we’re going.
Liable to the allurement of this world, we are apt in forgetting that our stay here is temporary. Oftentimes, our misconception that we have unlimited supply of time results in our misuse or even abuse in the use of our God given time. We are reminded that our lives are but a shadow (Job 8:9). Like mist of the morning, we easily evaporate at midday and are no more (James 4:14). Like seeds growing in rocky soil, we withered away under the scorching sun (Mark 4:6). Relying always at tomorrow’s promise reflects our inappropriate deducing that time is always available. But wisdom is justified by her children. We have a fixed and appointed stay. And ought to use our precious time prudently (Eph. 5:15-16).
We are not building earthly houses with fixation of permanence, neither are we gathering treasures for the long haul but rather we are merely pitching our tents, flimsy and insubstantial, that when it’s time to go, we fold our dwellings and go straight our way. Our sight is on that heavenly city, like the Patriarchs of old, who by faith desires that which is enduring and everlasting (Heb.11:13-16).
Our stay here is an admixture of joys and sorrows, tears and laughter, the holding of hands and letting go. The glaring evidences reflect in our faces at the slow, certain departure, one after the other, of our family members, acquaintances, friends and relatives, and in how we grieve for them. Also, the clear inevitables of aging, and the unavoidable ravages of diseases that eat away our earthly tents pronounced the destiny of all. One can only surmise the reasons why those saints in their sunset years, longed with fondness their celestial home.
Pilgrims travel light. Those who set their eyes on eternity know that the baggages they carry are but an encumbrance on their journey. Resembling Christian in John Bunyan’s allegory, we are carrying unnecessary load. Not only it bugged us down, it makes us miserable, tired, and overly burdened. What, then, are pilgrims supposed to do? The Bible is replete with truths of our identity. We are not only children of God, redeemed by grace, beloved and blessed, but likewise are pilgrims. Jesus spoke of loving our enemies (Matt. 5:44), forgiving those who offends us (Matt. 6:12,14), refraining ourselves from judging others (Luke 6:37), casting our cares on Him and to cease from worrying (Matt. 6:25-30), seeking God first (Matt. 6:33) and not holding any grudge and lusting after this world. These are our codes for living which ultimately free us from the baggage of being terrestrial. Our fears, our hate, our angers and jealousies, in the long run, through the eyes of eternity are insignificant like minute sands in our toes.
A week after our little talk, the patient-friend requested that he be sent home to be with his family and relatives. After a month, I received the news that he passed away. In the quiet hill of his island home, he was laid to rest, and finally ended his terrestrial journey. Death, truly, is an eye-opener. Grief’s a timely reminder and being at the house of mourning, a teacher of wisdom. In his Psalm, Moses reminded us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom (Ps. 90:12). And true wisdom dictates that we ought to know who we are, where we are going, and Who we’re with – and for us believers, that is, the LORD Jesus Christ, our greatest Companion from earth to glory.