This week, I had one of those moments which I know I won’t forget. Ever. I heard that my friend Glenn had died. Glenn was 55, fit and healthy, when his life was ended prematurely by a massive heart attack. I am 54 in a couple of months. This week, I realised like never before that I am mortal, and one of these days, my time will come too.
Glenn was 55, fit and healthy. I am 54 in a couple of months. This week, I realised like never before that I am mortal, and one of these days, my time will come too.
Why did Glenn’s death affect me so strongly? It’s not because I’ve led a sheltered life. When I was at University, a relative and fellow student of mine died tragically when he fell hillwalking. One of my classmates was killed crossing the road just a few months after we graduated. But they were aberrations—tragic events that seemed to have no right to interrupt a bright future. My mum died at 61—painfully early and far too quickly for any of us to even start to prepare. That too had a huge impact, but the tragedy of mum’s death was bound up in it being too soon; in her not getting to watch her grandchildren grow up. In the intervening years, I have conducted funerals for close friends who have lived and died well, and wept at their loss even as I rejoiced for them in the presence of Christ. Even in the past year, I, along with many others, mourned the loss of our Board Chair, Rick Fairhurst, a victim of cancer at 61. I know the pain of losing close friends and family.
But none of them affected me like this. Why? Because this time, I am mourning one of my peers. This time, I have had to face the reality that it really could have been me—and one day, sooner or later, it will be.
Glenn and I met properly in 1994. In many ways we were kindred spirits. We loved theology, and the church, and longed to see the gospel make more of an impact. We dreamed together, read together, prayed together, laughed and cried together, raged together and schemed together. We even started a magazine together (we called it a ‘Journal’ because we were ‘serious’ young men!), which ran for about five years. We shared a lot. In 2000, I moved to Dublin, and our lives began to diverge. We never fell out, and when our paths did cross, we were delighted to see each other. An awareness that theologically, we were now much further apart, changed our friendship—but it didn’t kill it. And then this week, I got a text message to say that Glenn had gone to be with Christ.
That’s the first of my peer group to be with the Lord Jesus. And sooner or later, it will be me. It’s been a sobering week, but one for which I am deeply thankful. It has thrown me back on what really matters. It has refocused my mind on what really matters. On who I am before God. On being a husband, a father and a friend. On making the most of whatever time I have left.
It has refocused my mind on what really matters. On who I am before God. On being a husband, a father and a friend. On making the most of whatever time I have left.
As I’ve thought and prayed about all this, I went back to re-read the the resolutions that Jonathan Edwards drew up as a young man. Three of them jumped out:
5. Resolved, never to lose one moment of time; but improve it the most profitable way I possibly can.
7. Resolved, never to do anything, which I should be afraid to do, if it were the last hour of my life.
17. Resolved, that I will live so as I shall wish I had done when I come to die.
Given the reality which one day will hit all of us, and all that God has given us in the Lord Jesus Christ, is there any other way to live?
