Originally written: July 2015
If you’ve never met Phil, you really should. Phil Wickham, that is. I say it like we are friends—I’ve never actually met him. I may have a slight obsession with his music, though. Ann got me started on him a few years ago, and tonight she has bought us tickets to see him at a church in Cleveland. I am, to say the least, pumped!
He doesn’t disappoint. I feel the Lord’s presence in that sanctuary, and I am so thankful for the challenge it brings. Since my diagnosis, the Lord has revealed the Word of God in an entirely new way, especially in terms of Christ’s return. We talked about it some this past spring in Bible study—in our study of Thessalonians—and I was challenged to appreciate so much more what it means to wait for Him to come again. But like so many things, I know that was only preparation. Now, I can’t seem to stop thinking about it. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t long for my life to be over (as in a depressed sort of way), but rather I long for the day when all this sin and sadness will end. I long to see my Savior.
It’s so easy to become complacent in this world—to buy into the consumerism, the bigger and better and lost purpose of life here on earth. It’s easy to think we have forever to find Jesus—that if you’re a good person you’ll certainly go to heaven. But since my diagnosis, I have been reminded so clearly that this life is but a vapor, and there is only one way to heaven—and that is through Jesus Christ. We are called, as it says, to be ready at any moment for Christ’s return: “…for you know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night” (1 Thess. 5:2).
And at this moment in my life—more than any other—I look forward to that moment. Phil’s lyrics bring this home. They overwhelm my soul with awe and love for Christ. And the tears fall from my face as he sings…
I want to hear you say well done.
I want to be welcomed in.
I want to feel your love like sunshine on my resurrected skin.
I want to hear the music play.
I want to hear the trumpet sound.
I want to hear you call my name and watch my feet lift off the ground.
I will run and I won’t quit.
Chasing your heart just like David did.
I’ll come running through the gates, look into your face.
Oh, I can hardly wait until you carry my soul away.
…And I will run, Lord, and I won’t quit…
If I may be so bold to ask you, would you lend your ear to me?
Oh, Lord, come quickly.
I sobbed. Literally. And I did not expect this. But these words—they have a new meaning this time. To run, he says. One of the dreadful parts of my disease is that it can impact my ability to walk. I know this may not happen to me—I pray it. But so much is unknown, and I do not pretend it will not. I know that my body will never be the same. The tips of my fingers remind me as I type this.
But I am strengthened; I am humbled that someday I will have a perfect body. And I imagine in my feeble, human mind that cannot possibly fathom the beauty of heaven that moment when my legs will be able to run without flaw into the arms of my Savior.
They are tears of recognition of what is happening here on earth but also a revelation from the Lord that I must hold on to hope. So I must run now—and not quit—for the glory of our God! I believe in the beauty and restoration that is coming.