Everything is draped in loss. Ever since receiving my stage four cancer diagnosis, everything has been draped in loss. Having received the report of the bone scan on Christmas Eve, I first noticed this change in perception when we began to take down Christmas decorations. Since our girls’ first birthdays, we have purchased—every year—Christmas ornaments to add to our tree, one for each of our immediate family. When the girls were old enough to choose their own, we’d take a trip to the Hallmark store at the Kitsap Mall in early December. We’d spend much time looking over that year’s selection of ornaments until we had each found our favorite. We’d then take the decorations home, sometimes wrapping them, then putting them under the tree, and sometimes hanging them on our Christmas tree so we could enjoy them that year. This last Christmas, having received a terminal cancer diagnosis, as we began to take down the ornaments to pack away for another year, I had grief wash over me like a slowly rising flood. Will this be my last Christmas? Will this be my last year to continue our tradition of buying ornaments for my wife Nancy and our daughters, Sarah and Nicole? And with each ornament put away, this sense of loss grew.

Everywhere I went, I experienced everything draped in loss. I drove to Walmart one Sunday evening, too late to walk at the park or the mall. I had called Walmart and asked the assistant manager if I could walk at their store for my health. She graciously consented. As I walked through the aisles, memories came rushing in of so many visits to that store with Nancy, Sarah, and Nicole. As I walked past the toy section, memories of our pre-Christmas and pre-birthday scouting trips to the toy stores washed over me. Here is where they chose those much-wanted toys for the upcoming Christmas celebration. In the clothing department, here is where I had patiently waited as they tried on outfit after outfit until finding just the right ones. In the grocery department and on the impulse buying shelves lining the approach to each cash register, here is where we had bought them candy, a pack of gum, or that bottle of soda pop. Beyond the loss of living with them through their young years, I had this pervasive sense of the loss of everything, having to say goodbye to them—with such finality. I know I’ll see them again—on the other side—in glory, but it’s like leaving a station to which you know you’ll never return, having to say goodbye to the life we share in this world.

Nancy and I enjoy walking at Lion’s Park—when we’ve been able to—before my radiation treatments. While walking with Nancy at the park in early Spring, everything was draped in loss. We had arrived before dusk while the sun was sinking towards the Olympics over Port Washington Narrows. The Japanese cherry trees were in full bloom, nearing the end of their short-lived beauty. As I walked towards the west with a full view of the Olympics in front of us, I looked over at the row of cherry trees on the park’s north side. The wind was picking up, sending cascades of cherry blossoms falling to the earth like late snow in Spring. A deep sense of loss rose like the rising tide. How many more Springs would I be able to bask in the sun’s brilliance on fully blossoming Japanese cherry trees? As the petals floated to earth, I felt like my life was drifting to the ground. Everything has been draped in loss. As we came towards the west on our final time, the sun set behind the Olympics, glorious in pinks and reds, reflecting off the water of the narrows in shimmers of light. How many more sunsets will I be present to see? The number seemed now to have a limit set—yet, unbeknownst—yet, calculated, and final. Would my life on this earth be like the sunset? Everything has been draped in loss.

At the very same time, everything has been draped in life. Since my terminal diagnosis, I have never felt so alive. While walking at the park in the early Spring, I could feel the grass slowly growing green. The sun glinted off the leaves of the trees, lighting up tiny new buds all around me. New growth on the tips of the branches of the evergreens around the park looked like Christmas ornaments adorning their dark branches. The fragrance of flowers was full in the air as we walked around the walking trail. The shrill and beautiful song of White-crowned Sparrows echoed all around the park as a chorus of birds answered each other’s songs as if wishing each other a good night’s sleep just as the sun began to sink behind the Olympic peaks. Ducks cavorted out on the narrows. A lone Blue Heron stood fishing in the shallows. Nancy, stood at my side, her hand clutched in mine.

Near the end of April, I drove to Portland for the Pacific Northwest Conference's Annual Meeting at West Hills Covenant Church. During the meeting, grief washed over me like an ocean wave. I stepped outside into a grassy courtyard with Japanese cherry trees in full blossom wrapped around two sides of the enclosure. I sat on a bench beneath the trees, listening to the robins singing cheerful songs. The wind picked up, sending a cascade of cherry blossoms around me. I could hear the wind rustling through the branches of the trees overhead. I have never felt so alive!

Like waking from a long slumber, it dawned on me that all around me, the entire creation was in continuous praise of the creator. God had created each of the birds, giving them their unique song while also giving us the ears to hear their music—God song. He had made trees laden with leaves on their branches, each with a particular sound as the wind rustled through them. “What a soothing chorus of praise,” I thought to myself. I noticed the rays of the sun shining on the cherry blossoms as they floated to the earth like brilliant white snow and sunlight rebounding off green blades of grass. Birds were singing, cherry blossoms floating, green grass growing, and the wind singing through the trees. I could hear creation breathing a cacophony of praise to the Lord of Creation in a kaleidoscope of color, sound, and living things. On my way home on Interstate-5, the conifers that lined the freeway stood as giant arrows, ever pointing heavenward, their branches dancing in the breeze in a wild dance to their creator. So God has draped everything in life!

During that same Spring, Nancy and I were walking at Lion’s Park. When we came down the stairs from the upper trail, rounding the baseball diamond, I saw a window formed by the branches of trees at the end of the concrete path just before it turned, following the contour of the beach. The sun was shining on the water in golden shimmers within that rectangular window. In the beauty of the moment, the wind of the Spirit rustled through me, and I caught an imperfect earthly view of the perfect heavenly glory that awaits us—by grace through faith—vouchsafed to live in the very presence of the One through whom all things were created. I felt like I could walk down the path and through that window into His glory. Yet, all around, creation continued to sing out His praise!

Since that Spring, between the final-stage cancer diagnosis in January and the radiation treatments completed in early July, those senses of having everything draped in loss and everything draped in life have come and gone. Having endured several health setbacks this last year, I have again experienced everything draped in loss. I am looking forward to getting away from the city, out into the mountains, where I can see and hear all creation singing its heavenly praise to the One who holds my days in His hands!