Oct 306 min read

Oh Yes, He Cares

A man plays a piano in a dark room with only his hands and the piano keys visible.

The elders and pastors had only just left the house, leaving my father and I on our own for a moment. My father was weak by this point, quite weak, and so it must have been me who walked the men across the house, through the softly playing music in the living room, and to the door to bid them farewell - and thanks.

Did I walk the men out? I truly cannot remember. It's a harmless thing to forget, really, but strange all the same given that so much of this moment has been deeply impressed upon my memory. I do, however, remember that my father looked tired, weary in both body and soul; his head leaned back on his pillow, eyes closed.

This would have been around mid-January. Canadian climate will often do this curious thing where it vacillates between all four seasons for a time, unable to make up its mind, only to suddenly wholeheartedly commit to either scorching heat and humidity, or else bitter cold and howling winds. Now that Christmas had passed, so had all weatherly indecision; the veil of winter had decisively fallen, and a darkness began to rest over the land. Indeed, the shortening days were weary and the ever lengthening nights were so very dreary.

It was around this time that my father's cancer had worsened and spread. As though riding upon the velvet feet of darkness itself, a shadow and sorrow began to threaten our family. That same shadow of cold and howling wind which had gathered out of doors began to steal across our own household.

Cancer... What an ugly word, like a mouthful of razors... So hard and harsh, both in word and in deed... The C's so sharp you could cut your tongue on them.

Dear reader, I hope that you do not read self-pity in my words, for that is not my intent. I do not mean to exaggerate, nor am I on the prowl for your sympathies; I only mean to recount things as they happened and as they seemed to me at the time.

And yet, there is always a warm light that persists in the dark, howling infinite - "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it" (John 1:5). It was in these days that Christ's presence felt most near, as though His reality took upon itself a greater weight - an intended weight - in those times when our family's faith was most fragile,

"The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit" (Psalm 34:18).

And yet, in the moments between moments, a fissure in our faith could be traced. A hairline crack, thin as an atom, that gave room to a single, deafening question: does Jesus care?

It must have been a Monday when the elders and pastors came to visit - though again, I cannot remember entirely. What I do recall is that on Sunday our church held a communion service. My father was unable to attend church by this point, but he deeply desired to share in communion. As is the custom of many churches, a handful of men in our local leadership would often visit the sick and elderly the week following Sunday communion to partake of it with those brothers and sisters who had been unable to attend in person. That Monday, several elders, pastors, and close friends of my father came to our home to do this very thing.

After thanking the men and seeing them out, I walked back to my parent's room and paused at the doorway to observe my father. Standing there, I could only just make out the melody coming from the other room - music that my mother must have turned on when the men arrived. He was in the same position as before, sitting upright with his head leaned back on his pillow, eyes closed, though not asleep. As I recall this memory to mind and see my father there in his bed, I draw comfort from Paul's words,

"Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal" (2 Corinthians 4:16-18).

Without Christ, there is no hope. Apart from unwavering faith in His unwavering promises, would we not, all of us, be undone? Looking at my father from the doorway, weak and worn as he was, these twin realities presented themselves: "Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day." This was true not only of my father, but of me also - of my entire family. We stood in these days upon a great threshold; the wasting away of the world and its comforts on one end, and a peace that surpassed all intelligible understanding on the other. While fully aware of the answer, we would ask ourselves, does Jesus care? And yet, did we not ask the question all the same?

I left the doorway and made my way into the room by my father's side, sitting on the bed with him. We sat in silence for some time, with only fleeting exchanges here and there - that was alright, we had a lot on our minds and even more on our hearts.

His eyes were still closed, but he was thinking. No doubt he was going over many of the same things in his mind that I was, though I am sure it was with far greater intensity. He looked both tired and restless, caught between the need to rest and the need to care for his family as he had always done. Was he thinking and worrying about those things that occupied my own mind? Was he too, somewhere deep in his own heart, asking that dreadful question - Does Jesus care? If he was, he never would have let on; his head was still leaned back on his pillow, eyes closed.

In the stillness that veiled that moment, I also must have closed my eyes at some point. It was such a quiet stillness that rested over the room that I could sense even the slightest motion of my father.

He was the first to hear the music.

I opened my eyes and looked at him curiously. His eyes were still closed, but his head was swaying gently, up and down, back and forth, as though he were following a tune or conducting an invisible orchestra. His lips were moving softly, tracing the words quietly as he heard them. And then, suddenly, I heard the music as well. Streaming softly from the living room, and then more noticeably, a haunting melody began to swell through the door,

"Does Jesus care when my heart is pained

Too deeply for mirth and song?

When the burdens press

And the cares distress

And the way grows weary and long?

Oh yes, He cares, I know He cares

His heart is touched with my grief

When the days are weary

The long night dreary

I know my Savior cares."

I know my Savior cares.

As the hymn continued to fill the room, I once again closed my eyes and allowed the music to cascade over me; to clothe me, to comfort me. When I say that this moment was 'haunting', understand me well: it was haunting. It was hauntingly beautiful, hauntingly weighty; it was poignant, reflective, transcendent even. In those fleeting minutes, it seemed as though the great gulf between earth and Heaven was breached, as though the eternal stepped foot onto the dusty floor of the temporal, transient, and fleeting. To borrow from another hymn, "Heaven came down and glory filled my soul." For but a moment, the unseen could be seen - "the things that are unseen are eternal."

The music faded, and with it the moment also. That door left open into the infinite was gently being shut once again, leaving my father and I as we were. My eyes slowly opened and I looked at him. He was in the same position as before, sitting upright with his head leaned back on his pillow, eyes closed, though not asleep - with a smile on his face.

"Does Jesus care when I've said, 'Goodbye'

To the dearest on earth to me?

And my sad heart aches

Till it nearly breaks

Is it aught to Him? Does He see?