Chapter 5: Who Says You’re Special?

  Jewfish Bay, Oatley National Park

IF THIS sounds like I’m setting myself up for sainthood, perish the thought. This is not about strength or selflessness in the face of pain and suffering. I want neither pity nor admiration. Many are the roads pot-holed by human weakness, and I have walked with a pick-axe built for tar and bitumen. That does not preclude me from telling my story.

So I have to do this, tell you what happened, what I came to believe, how the belief changed me, gifted me with a survival kit. We are not alone. You are not alone. Know this. God is with me as I drive to Lugarno. I know, as certain as the mountain stands its ground, God has always been by my side. In that short drive, I think back to all the times I have been saved, from accidents, tragedy, from death.

My first instinct is to doubt the presence is real, to see it as sleight of mind. The madness will soon descend. I have just slipped into survival mode, desperate for some direction to a road that holds hope for me. Why me? Why would God come to me, to help me? I have sinned and sinned and sinned again. Why do I deserve this grace? Who says you’re special?

There are some truths you hold that are marked in your DNA, as real as a molecule. But they are buried so deep in your psyche because you’re constantly focusing on frivolity, and awareness fades. Ego and conceit can afflict you with a certain spiritual blindness. That afternoon, the affliction bleeds out of me. I was blind, but now I see. Amazing grace. You sing it all your life and yet you just don’t see it.

The truth, my truth, comes to me as softly as the sound of rippling water in the little fish pond built into the wooden deck that leads to our backyard. God has whispered to me all my life, cautioned me on my worst meanderings. I have not listened. I have not seen. For so long. It takes a while to gel, but I can sense the guiding hand, that I am being directed, protected and, more than anything, comforted. I feel the most loving embrace. A peace descends that afternoon, where there has been madness and terror, like a light, as bright as it is soothing. In an impossible jigsaw comes design, and the gathering purpose.

Oatley Moon

I am not alone. The words “potentially terminal” have been like an engraving on granite. Now, footprints are imprinted beside my own, burned deeper than inscription on stone. I have not been forsaken. It is so simple. Give us this day our daily bread. Our Father. This is the holy bread, the mystery of the sacrament. Love, omnipresent, omnibenevolent, omniforgiving.

Once I have pinned this down, not knowing if I will make it through the night doesn’t matter anymore. Magar has unknowingly planted the seed, I don’t think “I have cancer”. Instead of “potentially terminal”, I can see endless opportunity. I understand that I now have my second chance, a second life, and this is the first day of that new life. I don’t know how many days there are, but possibility is limited only by vision.

That river of consciousness has continued to flow, and it follows now that every day is another second chance, a whole new shot at life — for all of us. We are all special. The truth is a whisper. There are neither sinners nor saints. We are strong and we are weak. God loves us like children. Unquestioning, non-judgmental. It’s not about “Please forgive me, Father”. We must learn to forgive ourselves. We are our worst enemies. We are the harshest of judges in our lives.

It will soon be three years since the doctors told me I had cancer. Quicker than I could have ever imagined, I have come to realise it’s just another name for another serious illness. It could be a massive heart attack, a deadly aneurysm that kills you in minutes. I have been broken very badly. You realise it happens. You realise it could be worse, it could be over. It can always be worse. You could get unceremoniously introduced to the front of a bus tomorrow. Every single person on this planet does not know if he or she will make it past the coming night, how many more days are ahead.

So here I am. There is no worry, because I have accepted I can’t see into tomorrow. And there is peace in knowing I don’t know. Not knowing does not matter for me because I am at peace. Since the illness, this simple truth remains as the most liberating force I have ever felt, and I hold onto it like it’s the love of my life. It’s not always easy to keep the peace. But I try. I try every day, every night. I am very afraid. That’s OK. We’re human. Fear can energise you. And there are times when a whole day passes without the thought that I am in remission.

In the face of a very probable death sentence, I have begun to live, instead of worrying about death. To serve. All of God’s children, everyone. This is not about worship, meeting the insurance premium that guarantees a place in heaven. Heaven doesn’t matter anymore. I am preparing to live, properly, in the here and now, for the first time in my life.

It is so simple when it finally comes together. I take myself out of the equation and I am stronger and bigger than I have ever been. I am not here to satisfy myself anymore. I am here for everyone else, first and foremost, and if that makes me feel better than I have ever felt, well, that’s just a bonus. Caring less about myself suddenly becomes a fine way to live indeed. I must embrace the heart of a servant.

Amsterdam, 2016