It took me longer than usual to get to sleep a couple nights ago. During high school, I spent my summers working at camp and got into the bedtime habit of processing the events of the day and praying while on my back, then rolling over onto my stomach to fall asleep. I was toes up longer than usual that night.
I began thinking about a game plan for killing a few more deer before the end of the season. I’ve tagged fewer deer this year than usual and the frustration has been mounting. Then, like the vestige of a bad dream bleeding into waking conscious, I was reminded of a dear friend’s current battle for life.
Recently, the discovery of an advanced abdominal cancer shook not only his family, but the congregation and community he pastors. The guy who provided comfort and hope for countless individuals during times of distress is now on the other side of the hospital bed rail.
Lloyd and his family came to serve at my home church in Ottawa in 1992, which, as I type that year, looks absolutely ancient, though feels like only a few years.
He served as a mentor to me as I wrestled with faith in high school. He shepherded our congregation through the inevitable conflicts and disagreements that arise whenever groups of people gather. He was my supervisor when I served as the church’s youth minister after college. In one of our weekly meetings, after I laid out all the virtues of my then girlfriend, he asked plainly why I didn’t just ask Beth to marry me (which I promptly did). His prodding made me realize there was no reason to wait.
He worked in trips down to St. Louis from Ottawa to facilitate our premarital counseling sessions, then teared up months later when he officiated our ceremony. I remember standing there on the stage thinking ‘This guy has performed countless marriages. He must really be touched if he’s welling up.’ Solid proof of how deeply Lloyd cares.
This summer, while everyone was at work and unavailable to help, I was left scratching my head as to how I was to load Mom and Dad’s entire household into a Penske moving truck by myself. Without being asked, Lloyd spent his morning hefting couches out of their basement with me. C.S. Lewis said the thing that ought to make Christians identifiable to the rest of the world is their intense interest in others and their well-being. That’s Lloyd.
There’s not much about him that’s outwardly striking, but his character runs deep. He’s mild-mannered, quietly brilliant and his leadership is steady handed. Those who know him are proud they do. So am I.
Now a longtime pillar in my life is shaken, as all things in this world will be. An oppressive weight in my chest reminds of the gravity of the situation. The hope we share in Christ beats it back, though a complex sadness remains.
It wasn’t just a lackluster deer season and my friend’s mortality keeping me awake. It was the trifecta of those two things, compounded by disappointment in myself that my mind could vacillate between both concerns as if they were even in the same universe as each other. They are not. It isn’t a mental process I’m proud to admit, but it is a call to keep priorities straight. What we desperately cling to for fulfillment in this life proves dull and hollow in the scope of eternity. That’s not to say we ought to wallow in ashes and disdain any joy we find in this world, but we can’t make it our ultimate goal.
Lloyd’s health, like everything else in his life (and ours, whether we admit it or not) is in God’s hands. Tonight, when I lay down and look up, I’ll be asking God to heal my friend in whatever way He deems appropriate. I’ll thank Him for the longstanding and ongoing influence He has through Lloyd and for the wisdom to live a life that reflects what’s truly important.
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