The fact that he was a church pastor did not help him to fathom the gravity of the news.
‘We’re sorry, Mr. Jones, the bump we saw in the scan is a malicious tumour.’
Speedy tears streamed down the unevenness of his wrinkled cheeks as, in the hospital parking lot, he simply wondered ‘Why?’: Why him? Why now?
He felt a little ridiculous, as he dried his eyes and kicked off the engine, that he had no words to make himself feel better; every Sunday, when the congregation lined up to be blessed, he’d always have the right sentences, rooted in powerful Bible verses, to make them at least smile with hope.
He didn’t know what to say to his wife, Marguerite, when he finally arrived home. But the words he conjured came out slow, battered and bruised just like his very soul.
‘Marge, something terrible has happened.’
He just couldn’t hold it in. They were having dinner and, just a second before he spoke, his wife asked why in the world the lettuce on his fork shook so much.
Marguerite, his wife of more than forty years, almost fell off her chair. Or at least, that’s what she felt like doing, like letting herself to the floor and squirm until the nightmare would be all but over and a new sun replaced the dingy darkness of that evening.
Their married sons, Tom and Will, also felt faint by the news. They were bound to be. Especially given that the doctors were always so exuberant, after routine checkups, in telling them that their father’s health was like that of a twenty year-old.
‘I don’t know if I can do this, boys.’ Mr. Jones sobbed, on yet another evening of despair, while the four of them hugged on the sofa.
Despair at the cost of surgery, despair at the gruesomeness of chemo, despair at the impending pain, despair at why God had let this happen to the family, despair at not knowing if this was a penitence for a particular sin, despair at not making it through it all.
Alone in his church, Mr. Jones knelt on the rugged stage, more tears gliding on the sides of his face.
‘This is not fair, Father!’ he screamed, the echo doubling the potency of his timbre. ‘It’s not right! I served you tirelessly! So why?’
He just needed an answer to it, to the ‘why’.
‘I will not serve at this church again! Do you hear me? Never again!’
Dear reader, do you believe in grace? Do you believe that the next day, just as Mr. Jones had lost all faith and the whole family went for another scan, which was a routine ascertainment to check that the tumour was still there, the tumour was no more?
Now, I ask, what makes Man, even men of the church like Mr. Jones, give up too easily on The Remaining Hope sitting on the perching clouds above us all?
Achike Morgan
© Copyrights 2023 Achike Morgan