No one told me this was going to be so hard

I recently read Kate Bowler’s No Cure for Being Human.

Her honest take on her cancer diagnosis (and remission) struck me.

It’s not the witty retelling of her story. It’s not the juxtaposition of humor and delightful prose with such a heavy topic.

It’s that Kate brings a refreshingly human perspective as a Christian and professor at Duke Divinity School to her diagnosis and the very real possibility of her life being cut short at 35.

I’m no stranger to Christian literature. C.S. Lewis, Philip Yancey, John Piper, and others dot the shelves behind my desk.

What strikes me about Bowler’s book — that also puts her in my must-read category — is that where most theologians look at suffering as an opportunity to wax poetic about the grace of God and the nature of humanity, she brings a very realistic, pragmatic, and human view.

It’s not that an air of stoic serenity is not appreciated, but it’s not always honest either.

I won’t spoil it, and I can’t do her book justice so I’ll just leave it with a recommendation that you read it and get on to a personal anecdote.

I grew up in the church.

I was born and raised Catholic before switching to the Presbyterian church, then a series of non-denominational churches, and finally the Episcopal church.

I don’t share this as a “church resume” to impress you or anyone else for that matter. Just to illustrate the fact that I have lived much of my 31 years steeped in a Christian world that gave me a Christ-centered lens to look through (should I choose to use it).

There is a central tension that comes with belief: if we are lucky we’ll get 70 - 90 years here, and a healthy reminder every Sunday that those finite years are not all that there is. At the same time, we have no shortage of plans, hopes, dreams, and aspirations with which we can fill those years.

And as much as we’d like to say that we firmly believe that “this is not all there is,” I think many would be lying if they didn’t follow that up with “but not until I…” under their breath.

I have ambitions of my own. Some have been realized (get married, go to Europe, start a business) and others have not (go to Italy, be fluent in another language, write a book).

I still have time though, right?

Yes, but who knows how much is left.

It was when I turned 25 and I went home for a weekend and realized my parents looked a bit older than when I had last seen them. That realization has not gone away since, and like a ghost in the attic, it haunts the back of my mind with each passing year.

Growing up, everything seemed so simple. Go to school and get good grades. Believe in God and go to Heaven. Go to college and get a good job. Every summer meant summer vacation, baseball, and a trip to Cape Cod and every winter meant the holidays (and Christmas presents).

Throughout it all the people in my life felt like unchanging, ageless, ever-present individuals.

Except they weren’t, and aren’t. And no one prepared me for that.

Like Bowler, I’m not going to respond to this with some sort of platitude to wash it all away or deny that this worms its way into my brain every so often.

Instead, I think I’m going to try to make the most of the time I do get, be grateful for it, bask in the mystery that is life for now, and try to maintain my faith in the life to come.

There is no cure for being human. I don’t think there is meant to be one either. I believe in God. I believe that my life is not random. And I believe it is meant to be cherished and enjoyed.