Walking through the Shadows

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. PSALM 23:4 NKJV Psalm 23, penned by the shepherd boy who became king, is one of the best known and most quoted passages of scripture. Every line of David’s masterpiece is beautifully eloquent as literature, profoundly simple in presentation and understanding. Yet, its depth of meaning still causes wonder and amazement as we study and meditate upon it. It is poetic in its arrangement and powerful at creating visual images in our imagination. Our mind’s eye easily sees the gentle Shepherd (Jesus) leading His small flock, staff in hand, speaking in tender, hushed tones, gently moving the sheep along. We imagine the vista of green pastures, and we hear the gentle sounds of a mountain brook pooling into still waters. We sense the surrounding peace as we lie down. Our souls relax and rest. Yet, we also sense the darkness of the valley—whether ahead or just traversed—the terror of lingering death all around us. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” the psalmist says. Here, I imagine long fingers of dusk, cast from leafless trees and scraggly bushes across a narrow path in a steep valley between two unscalable mountains. The shadowy timbers look like grasping hands of demonic monsters reaching out for me. I grew up on a farm in the rural American South. As a boy, I spent many late afternoons hunting and fishing, often in remote locations. I know what it’s like to be deep in the woods and realize that night has come more quickly than I anticipated. What little illumination remains from the setting sun provides only enough light to cast ominous shadows that move with the breeze. Anxiety wells up within, and even the familiar becomes fearsome. What if I can’t find my way back? Shadows take on lives of their own, becoming everything there is to fear in the woods—a monster? a wild beast? With a steadying breath, I remind myself that, no, they’re only shadows, nothing more. That’s what shadows are—the image of something much smaller than they appear. Shadows are real, but they present a distorted reality. This book is a record of my journey with cancer. I have entitled it Walking through the Shadows because that’s where a cancer diagnosis puts most people—deep in the valley. Fear grips the heart and plays tricks on the mind. Struggling just to catch our breath, we become disoriented to reality. The psalmist seems to have walked through such a valley himself because, right there in the middle, he declares, “I will fear no evil for You are with me.” Truthfully, we’re all writing stories of some kind in our minds; stories of how we think our lives and futures should play out. “Once upon a time,” they begin, and they’re full of great and wonderful things we’ll enjoy, eventually concluding with, “and they lived happily ever after.” Left to create our own stories, we’d never write into them something about walking through the valley of the shadow of death. We’d stick with sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows. According to my story, I was to have a wonderful, loving, romantic marriage. My four daughters would grow up to lead significant lives, loving and serving the Lord. They would marry good Christian men and give me and April plenty of grandchildren to spoil. I would have good financial stability—I didn’t need to be famously rich, but we would have more than enough with some left over to share. The church we’d pastor would be healthy and growing; it would actively impact our community and touch our world for Christ. Through all of that, April and I, of course, would enjoy great health. And then, in this perfect story, somewhere around a hundred years old, my bride and I would die peacefully together of natural causes, in our sleep and holding hands. That’s the story I was writing in my head and, for the most part, it’s what I was living out in my life. I had left no room in my story for great trials, even though I knew how easily and suddenly they could come. But that was my story. God’s version was greater. With one unexpected doctor’s visit, God reminded me that He is “the author and finisher of [my] faith” (Hebrews 12:2 NKJV), and He has full editorial rights to His story in me. I’m still hoping for that great ending I was imagining, but I’m happy to wait. Until then, I pray that His story in me will point many to Him. And that’s what this is—His story…in me. Chapter 1 The Thing about Plans We will always remember December 30, 2017. We sat down in a local coffee shop and had breakfast together for the purpose of coordinating our calendars for the new year. We made some fabulous plans for our marriage, family, ministry, and business endeavors. Our plans included the meaningful work and ministry that we expected to accomplish over the next year, as well as plenty of purposeful time with family, margins for rest, a few short getaways, and a good vacation that we would enjoy with our girls. We spent about three hours in that café that morning. By the time we were finished, I had a full calendar and plenty of lists to mark off. I was hyped up on several cups of coffee and the excitement of good plans laid out. My heart was happy. We finished about the same time the lunch crowd was shuffling in. It was a typical winter’s day in Northeast Ohio—gray, cold, a bit windy, and spitting rain that turned to snow as we stepped out the door. Weather in our part of the world can change quickly, and so can our plans. Little did we know that we were only days away from a moment in which, for us, time would stand still and all of our plans, not only for that year but also the next two, would be tossed away by the sovereign hand of God, the author and finisher of our faith. In fact, our editor, Jesus, was about to take over our story.