My dad left me a Bible when he passed away in the mid-eighties. It’s my most prized possession by far. (Luckily, Tugboat—my judgmental little corgi—doesn’t read this blog, so he won’t be offended. First, for being referred to as a possession, and second, for not being my most prized one.)
On the inside cover of that Bible, there’s a childish doodle I made on 11/18/1984. I know the date because he wrote it in that day, for reasons I’ll never know. He died eight months later, on 7/29/1985.
The Bible is old and falling apart in places. Everything from Philippians to Revelation has come loose from the binding. I had always intended to get it rebound, but over the last few weeks, I’ve started to like its brokenness and age.
I’ve opened that Bible a lot lately, flipping through the pages at random. Yesterday, while doing it again, I came across a verse my dad underlined—Matthew 6:27. It says, “Who of you by worrying can add a single day to your life?”
I have to assume he read that at a time when he already knew he was dying and found some kind of peace in it. I did too, when I read it yesterday. It might sound campy to some, but I don’t think it was a coincidence. I doubt my dad knew I’d need that verse for a similar reason, long after he was gone. But I do believe it was put in front of me at this exact time to give me hope.
My friend Willis said something to me not long ago that really stuck. He told me that when things show up like this—when moments line up too perfectly to explain—it isn’t coincidence. It’s God. It’s His way of putting something in front of you because He knows what you need, even when you don’t. I’ve chosen to believe that, too.
Hope and optimism have always been two of my stronger traits—especially now. And why wouldn’t they be, honestly? I really only have two choices: I can either worry, or I can hope. If things go badly, at least I didn’t waste whatever time I had left being afraid of something I couldn’t control. But if things go the way I hope, it’ll be that much sweeter.
I know some people might read this and think I’m being ridiculous—or something of the sort. That’s ok, I get it. It doesn’t change how I feel. I’m still hopeful. I’m hopeful that tomorrow, when I meet my radiation oncologist and we move forward with the treatment plan, things will go okay. I’m hopeful that tomorrow is the next step in a shitty journey that ends well.
This post probably reads a little oddly, maybe a little rambling at times. But I wrote it for anyone and everyone who’s worrying. Have faith. Keep hope. Things will be okay—for me, and for you—whatever it is you’re hopeful for.
For now, its time to call it a night. I want to watch the Last of Us so I can be reminded that no matter whatever comes next, its not likely to be zombies…