\nNicholas was alive.\nAfter a bone marrow transplant for leukemia at the University of Iowa, our\nson’s new immune system was building. Nicholas, our seven-year-old, had nearly\ndied following the transplant. He developed a virus that began multiplying\nand choking off what little bone marrow production he had. I asked the doctor,\n“Do I need to call in Nick’s grandparents and the rest of the family?”<\/p>\n\n
\n“I can’t say,” the doctor replied. “We’ll know more this evening.”<\/p>\n\n
\nLater that afternoon, the chaplain came to visit. My wife, Vickie, and I\nwere deeply frightened, and after some conversation, we asked her to lay\nhands upon Nick and us for healing. Later that day, Nicholas turned the corner.\nSix weeks later, we packed up our van and brought him home to the awaiting\ncelebration. Friends and members of our church had decorated our house, cleaned\nit from top to bottom, and filled the pantries. We were frightened and joyful,\nbut we celebrated our homecoming.<\/p>\n\n
\nTwo-and-half months later, Vickie and I heard the words from the oncologist\nthat made us weep for joy: “Your son is in remission.” The news washed over\nus like a long-awaited, late-summer rain. The next evening, however, just\nbefore I left the house to lead the Bishop’s Committee (governing board)\nmeeting, the phone rang. My wife picked it up. I watched as she turned ashen\ngray and began to cry. It was the oncologist. Further microscopic analysis\nof Nicholas’s bone marrow, he said, revealed four leukemia cells.<\/p>\n\n
\n“What does this mean?” Vickie asked, desperate.<\/p>\n\n
\n“Nothing is for sure,” the doctor said. “You will need to wait two weeks\nfor Nicholas to take another test.”<\/p>\n\n
\nAfter a brief moment in quiet panic, Vickie and I quickly decided to buy\ntime; we would not tell anyone outside our family. I left for the Bishop’s\nCommittee meeting.<\/p>\n\n
\nThat evening, the church budget, repairs to its buildings, and various people’s\nprivate agendas-all seemed trivial. As others debated, my mind fought to\naccept the unfolding truth. I wanted to tell my leadership team the incredible\nburden slowly crushing my heart. But the doctor seemed to hold out a slim\nchance of hope. There was no point in getting people all riled up. And if\nthe test confirmed Nicholas’s imminent death, I wanted him to learn the news\nfrom me or his mother-not from someone else.<\/p>\n\n\n
Two weeks later, we returned to the Iowa clinic. I parked the car\non the top floor of the parking garage and took Nicholas in my arms.<\/p>\n\n
\n“Do I have to have a test today?” he asked.<\/p>\n\n
\n“Yes, a bone marrow.”<\/p>\n\n
\n“I knew it!” he cried. “I knew it since you and Mommy came today! Is it back?\nIs the leukemia back?”<\/p>\n\n
\n“We think so.”<\/p>\n\n
\n“Am I going to die?”<\/p>\n\n
\nI felt time freeze. “Yes, I think you are going to die.”<\/p>\n\n
\nWithin three hours our fear was confirmed: the leukemia had returned. In\na long conversation, the doctor gave us three options: another transplant,\nconventional chemotherapy, or no further treatment. In each case, the outcome\nwould be death: if a transplant, probably by pneumonia; if chemotherapy,\nby toxicity. Without any additional treatment, Nicholas had three to nine\nmonths, depending on how rapidly the disease spread. The doctor gave us a\nweek to decide.<\/p>\n\n
\nThe next Tuesday, when I walked into the kitchen to eat breakfast, Nicholas\nwas sitting on Vickie’s lap. Tears streamed down her cheeks. I knew what\nhad happened.<\/p>\n\n
\n“He doesn’t want any more treatment, does he?”<\/p>\n\n
\nVickie, her eyes red, said, “No, and he’s afraid we’ll be disappointed with\nhim.”<\/p>\n\n
\nMy heart burst. I wanted to respect Nicholas’s wishes, but I also wanted\nto fight. Nicholas, however, had said that he’d had enough. He knew he was\ngoing to die. He wanted only to know if he could make it to Christmas.<\/p>\n\n
\nAs I write, the memory of the powerlessness I felt makes me to want to scream.\nIt seemed strange to let a seven-year-old decide his future. After much\nsoul-searching, and strong opposition from the medical community-the transplant\ndoctor viewed the choice as giving up-we agreed not to pursue any rigorous\ntreatment.<\/p>\n\n
\nI agonized to accept Nicholas’s decision. I needed assurance that all options\nhad been exhausted. I got on the phone and talked to top childhood leukemia\nspecialists all over the world. Every one reaffirmed our oncologist’s prognosis:\nNicholas would die.<\/p>\n\n
As the tragedy unfolded, I struggled between fulfilling parish\nobligations and spending time with Nicholas. My work-day consisted of early\nmornings and late evenings. The phone would ring at my church office about\n9:30 a.m.<\/p>\n\n
\n“Hi, Dad!”<\/p>\n\n
\n“Hey, buddy, how do you feel today?”<\/p>\n\n
\n“Pretty good.”<\/p>\n\n
\n“Well, what’s the plan? Galaxy World game room? Shopping?”<\/p>\n\n
\n“Let’s go to Galaxy World.”<\/p>\n\n
\nHome I went, and out we’d go. Our trips lasted for a few hours, and then\nNicholas needed rest. So did I.<\/p>\n\n
\nMost people in the church graciously accepted the new realities of my work\nschedule. But not all. Over breakfast, one man told me, “Some people think\nthat these daily activities you’ve planned with Nicholas have been simply\nto raise your own profile-to meet your needs, not his.”<\/p>\n\n
\nFlabbergasted, I retorted, knowing the answer full well, “Have you ever had\none of your children die? Then how would you know? All I’m trying to do is\ngive him the best I can. I resent your implying that all his wishes are for\nmy own aggrandizement. Even if you’re partly correct, don’t I have a right\nto share a few experiences with my dying son that meet my hopes? I think\nso!”<\/p>\n\n
\nOur breakfast came to a social but quick end.<\/p>\n
\nOnly now do I realize how angry I was. I thought I hid it well. But one day,\na church leader said, “Anger has no place in the life of a minister. Don’t\nyou believe Nicholas will get better?”<\/p>\n\n
\n“Nick will get better,” I replied.<\/p>\n\n
\nI didn’t believe it. I became even more angry at my hypocrisy. My son’s life\nwas slipping away; I could do nothing to stop it.<\/p>\n\n
\nThe few critical people, however, were counterbalanced with the majority\nin our congregation who knew Nick was dying, and were just as afraid as we\nwere. Every couple months I, or my wife and I, would sit following the service\nand answer people’s questions. I often saw tears in the corners of their\neyes and the look of shared sadness.<\/p>\n\n
\nShortly after Nicholas had been diagnosed, we brought him home to recuperate\nand begin his chemotherapy treatments. That afternoon, while taking out the\ntrash, I was bowled over by the thought, There are no guarantees in\nlife.<\/em> I had managed to hold on to the belief that tragedy was doled out\nevenly; I thought that once I had my quota, I was done. The implications\nwere crushing: Tragedy in one area of my life is no hedge against more\nsuffering.<\/em><\/p>\n \nInevitably, my work at church became a low priority when Nicholas relapsed.\nThe bishop suggested I take a leave of absence. I addressed the Bishop’s\nCommittee, “The bishop has offered me a leave of absence. What do you think?”<\/p>\n\n \nAll responses were various forms of no: “We don’t want you severing ties\ncompletely. That would be worse than even marginal contact. We’ll take whatever\ntime you can give.”<\/p>\n\n \nSo I turned down the bishop’s offer, a big mistake. Torn between supporting\nNicholas and leading a parish, I felt inadequate at both.<\/p>\n\n\n One night in the hospital, three weeks before he died, Nick told\nme he was afraid. He wanted to know what was going to happen. I reassured\nhim of his place in heaven.<\/p>\n\n \n“But Dad, I won’t be able to be with you and Mommy and Sissy anymore.” Nicholas\nbegged, “Can’t you put my body at the end of the bed or bury me in the backyard?”<\/p>\n\n \n“No, Nick, we can’t do that,” I said. “Mommy and I promise that we will be\nburied on either side of you. And we promise to remember you all our lives.\nWe’ll celebrate your birthday every year, including a party this year.”<\/p>\n\n \nThis seemed to comfort him; we never talked about death again.<\/p>\n\n \nThe day before his death began as usual: Nick lying in bed, moaning. About\n10 p.m. he went to bed in his room and soon began to have difficulty breathing.\nI tried to give him oxygen, but each time he refused. Panicked, we called\nhis nurse. Nick was choking on body fluids.<\/p>\n\n \nWe kept vigil, watching him fight for every breath. When his choking became\nunbearable, our nurse administered a drug to help him relax. Once it took\neffect, Nicholas calmed down, and died.<\/p>\n\n \nNick’s death should have been serene, with gentle music playing in the\nbackground. It wasn’t. Vickie and I screamed in agony; we felt cheated, scared.\nAs the tears subsided, we patiently washed Nick’s body and anointed him with\noil. We lit a candle, prayed, cried some more, and tried to keep our sanity.<\/p>\n\n \nMy wonderful son, this wonderful gift from God, was dead, only three years\nafter being diagnosed.<\/p>\n\n \nNicholas was buried Tuesday of Holy Week. Easter Day dawned unusually warm\nand bright. Late that day, Vickie and I sat on our front walk watching the\nsunset. Our two-year-old daughter, Hannah, played in the yard. “What do you\nthink Nicholas sees right now?” I asked. “Do you think he sees this sunset?”<\/p>\n\n \n“He sees an even more beautiful sunset than we can see,” Vickie replied.<\/p>\n\n \nAfter a long pause, I asked her, “What if this is all there is? What if dead\nis dead is dead? What if life does come to an end? What if Nick is no more?”<\/p>\n\n \nA long pause followed. “You may be right,” Vickie answered, “but I choose\nto live my life believing it is true.”<\/p>\n\n \nNo single decision I’ve made has been as important as following my wife’s\ndecision. I would celebrate the resurrection as a defining reality of life.\nYet, in the ensuing months I fell deeply into despair and depression. I\nquestioned God, I wondered about life. I wondered how I could teach the Christian\nfaith when I didn’t feel as if I had any myself.<\/p>\n\n \nThe issue I faced wasn’t about truth; it was faith. Deep inside, I knew that\nwithout faith I’d never recover. Time and time again I had to remind myself\nof our decision that Easter Sunday. On some days I reaffirmed it every ten\nminutes.<\/p>\n\n Out of guilt, I quickly returned to a fairly regular schedule at\nchurch. I still felt sad and empty, but I could do nothing to stop my tears\nand anger. Everything seemed trivial and meaningless. People didn’t know\nhow to reach out to me, nor I to them.<\/p>\n\n \nOne day a woman called. I could tell she was crying. She said, “My dog just\ndied.”<\/p>\n\n \n“What?”<\/p>\n\n \n“My dog just died. I know this isn’t like losing a child, but this animal\nhas been my comfort for years.”<\/p>\n\n \nThrough clenched teeth, I politely said, “I understand” and “Thanks for letting\nme know.” Then I slammed the phone down. I could not see how her pain measured\nup to mine.<\/p>\n\n \nDays passed into weeks and months. The people in the parish seemed to draw\none of two conclusions. Some acted as if their problems could never measure\nup to the severity of our losing Nicholas. One Sunday I noticed a woman,\nwho looked weary, crying often during the service. After worship, I approached\nher. “I’m concerned about you,” I said. “Is anything going on?”<\/p>\n\n \n“My mother died about three weeks ago, and my husband was recently informed\nthat his job will be terminated.”<\/p>\n\n \n“Oh no! How come you didn’t let me know?”<\/p>\n\n \n“Well, compared to your loss,” she replied. “I didn’t want to burden you.\nYour loss is so much more serious.”<\/p>\n\n \nOthers seemed to grow impatient with my slow recovery. One Sunday, a man\nasked if we could talk privately. Curious, I asked him what the congregation\nwas saying about me off the record.<\/p>\n\n \n“Most people understand what you are going through right now,” he said, “but\nwe look forward to the old Al returning again.”<\/p>\n\n \n“My old self will not be back,” I said. “I have no idea what the future holds.\nWhen Nick died, a part of me died. My life is changed-I cannot return to\nhow it was before. I cannot go back to two kids, both healthy. You can’t\nimagine how much I wish I could.”<\/p>\n\n \nHe didn’t understand, nor did I, that healing takes time.<\/p>\n\n \nI grew increasingly uncomfortable with the church situation. The questions\nexploded: How could I explain that my life had changed in a fundamental way?\nMy old life had been cast aside with one incredible event. How could I alleviate\nthe anxiety and uncertainty in others when I was overwhelmed myself? How\ncould I tell the people I loved for nearly eight years that the old me would\nnever return? And how, steeped in my own grief, could I lead a parish to\ngrieve?<\/p>\n\n \nThe church naturally wanted life to return to normal as quickly as possible.\nI no longer knew what normal was. The parish hoped Vickie and I had hit bottom;\nmy sense was that we were only starting the glide downward.<\/p>\n\n \nPreaching intensified these pastoral dilemmas. I forced myself to sound faithful\nwhen I didn’t believe. My struggle to make sense out of this experience led\nme to use in my preaching examples from Nick’s life. One Sunday a long-time\nmember said, “I’m uncomfortable coming here for worship.”<\/p>\n\n \n“How come?”<\/p>\n\n \n“Nicholas. Frankly, some of us are tired of hearing about him. It hurts too\nmuch. I don’t want to come to church to be hurt; I want to leave feeling\ngood.”<\/p>\n\n \n“I don’t know what to say,” I replied.<\/p>\n\n \n“Isn’t there anything else from which you can draw examples?”<\/p>\n\n \n“Probably,” I said (which meant “No”).<\/p>\n\n \nA far deeper question remained, however. It had to do with what I avoided\n(or did not know how to address within me) and therefore avoided in my preaching.\nWhere was God throughout Nicholas’s illness and death? How could I accept\nall that Nick suffered, given that death was still the outcome? How does\npain fit with living the victorious life? And who is in charge of the world?\nWhere is my son? Will I ever see him again?<\/p>\n\n \nA huge wall of pain had settled between the congregation and me. Neither\nof us knew how to enter into that pain. We certainly didn’t know how to do\nit together. Perhaps given time, we would have. But I was tired. I had taken\nso much time off between the bone marrow transplant and the final days of\nNick’s life, I felt guilty asking for more. I struggled to listen, pray,\npreach, and lead. I did not know what to do with such powerlessness and grief.<\/p>\n\n\n Eleven months after Nick died, we received a call from another\nparish. Vickie and I agonized over whether to make the move. I wondered if\ndoing so was the coward’s way out.<\/p>\n\n \nThe parish I served was young, dynamic, and growing. After Nick’s illness\nand death, I felt tired and old. I didn’t have the energy to lead anymore.\nThe church was also entering a stretch of whitewater. The close-knit core\ngroup who helped start the church was being outnumbered by new people, a\nclassic case of the pioneers being overrun by the settlers. In addition,\nour church was at the two-hundred barrier, so my role as pastor was changing.\nI couldn’t bring myself to redefine my role.<\/p>\n\n \nVickie and I also wanted to place some distance between ourselves and the\nconstant reminders of how life was before Nick died. Seeing all the children\nwith whom he had played each Sunday was more than we could bear. We wanted\nto remember the fullness of his life. Seeing Nicholas’s buddies reminded\nus of illness and death.<\/p>\n\n \nPerhaps what clinched our decision was the man who, while Nick was still\nalive, criticized me for spending so much time with him. When Nick finally\ndied, this man and his wife actively began to reject me. They would come\nto the altar rail and then refuse to receive Communion from me. But it wasn’t\nso much his rejection of me as it was the lesson I learned from his background.\nThrough bits and pieces of conversations, I picked up that his father had\nbeen a minister who was apparently involved in a tragedy while serving in\nhis first church. His family stayed in that parish for thirty-seven years,\nliving with the reminders of what had happened. The father, paralyzed by\nthe guilt, was apparently unable to move forward. His son, many years later,\nstill resented it. I saw in him a message he didn’t have the words to say:\nMove on. I realized that, if nothing else, as long as we were moving, we\nwere not sitting still, declining, or dying. It was worth a chance.<\/p>\n\n \nIn spite of our critics, Vickie and I loved that church family. But the decision\nto move, to put the darkness of Nick’s death behind us, seemed best. As we\nmade the decision to accept the new position, we prayed the church that called\nus would allow us space to heal.<\/p>\n\n\n Our move was only thirty minutes away, to another parish in the\nChicago area. But it might as well have been 3,000 miles away. The biggest\nchange was that instead of being tired of hearing of Nicholas’s life and\ndeath, the congregation seemed to want to hear me tell our story. The story\nwas fresh, and it revealed to them the heart of their pastor.<\/p>\n\n \nSeven years have passed since Nicholas’s death, and I’ve learned that healing\nhappens the more you tell the story.<\/p>\n\n \nNicholas’s death has led me to two powerful experiences of faith. The first\nwas the shattering of faith. I recalled Chuck Swindoll’s description of this\nspiritual place: When faith is shattered, it is time to rely on the faith\nof others, for my faith was gone.<\/p>\n\n \nThe second experience, equally powerful, was an awakening of faith. Today,\nthis faith enables me to go on in the face of overwhelming fears for my surviving\nchildren, the continuing pain of grief, and a laundry list of unanswered\nquestions.<\/p>\n\n \nShortly after Nicholas died, I attended a preaching mission on the South\nSide of Chicago. The lead speaker, Dr. James Forbes, remarked that, “You’ve\ngot to find time for the pain.” I felt as if the hand of God reached in and\ntouched my heart. I rejoiced over the apostle Paul’s words, “I reckon the\nsufferings of this present time are nothing compared to the glory that shall\nbe revealed to us.”<\/p>\n\n \nThe path to recovery continues through the pain. Nicholas taught me that\nlife is filled with pain. As I stand in front of people each week, I am more\naware that many, if not all, hurt.<\/p>\n\nDeath of a gift<\/h2>
No longer normal<\/h2>
Message in a critic<\/h2>
Shattering and awakening<\/h2>