The elders and pastors had only just left the house, leaving my father and I on our own for a moment. My father was weak by this point, quite weak, and so it must have been me who walked the men across the house, through the softly playing music in the living room, and to the door to bid them farewell – and thanks.

Did I walk the men out? I truly cannot remember. It’s a harmless thing to forget, really, but strange all the same given that so much of this moment has been deeply impressed upon my memory. I do, however, remember that my father looked tired, weary in both body and soul; his head leaned back on his pillow, eyes closed.

This would have been around mid-January. Canadian climate will often do this curious thing where it vacillates between all four seasons for a time, unable to make up its mind, only to suddenly wholeheartedly commit to either scorching heat and humidity, or else bitter cold and howling winds. Now that Christmas had passed, so had all weatherly indecision; the veil of winter had decisively fallen, and a darkness began to rest over the land. Indeed, the shortening days were weary and the ever lengthening nights were so very dreary.

It was around this time that my father’s cancer had worsened and spread. As though riding upon the velvet feet of darkness itself, a shadow and sorrow began to threaten our family. That same shadow of cold and howling wind which had gathered out of doors began to steal across our own household.

Cancer… What an ugly word, like a mouthful of razors… So hard and harsh, both in word and in deed… The C’s so sharp you could cut your tongue on them.

Dear reader, I hope that you do not read self-pity in my words, for that is not my intent. I do not mean to exaggerate, nor am I on the prowl for your sympathies; I only mean to recount things as they happened and as they seemed to me at the time.

And yet, there is always a warm light that persists in the dark, howling infinite – “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” (John 1:5). It was in these days that Christ’s presence felt most near, as though His reality took upon itself a greater weight – an intended weight – in those times when our family’s faith was most fragile,

The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18).

And yet, in the moments between moments, a fissure in our faith could be traced. A hairline crack, thin as an atom, that gave room to a single, deafening question: does Jesus care?

It must have been a Monday when the elders and pastors came to visit – though again, I cannot remember entirely. What I do recall is that on Sunday our church held a communion service. My father was unable to attend church by this point, but he deeply desired to share in communion. As is the custom of many churches, a handful of men in our local leadership would often visit the sick and elderly the week following Sunday communion to partake of it with those brothers and sisters who had been unable to attend in person. That Monday, several elders, pastors, and close friends of my father came to our home to do this very thing.