Light And Momentary

He stood in front of me, a grin splitting his face – an aging face covered by too white skin – the kind of skin that only comes from long days of chemotherapy. And then, even before I said my name, he took my hand in his and held it to his bald, stubbled head; the forever symbol of brain tumor treatment. His grin was huge. “God is good”, he said.

The last time I saw him, I was only 12 years old and I remember him in those treatment days, too thin and chemo white, his high, clear voice calling out loud and true in a quiet church sanctuary; proclaiming life and joy in something I couldn’t at that time imagine: deadly brain cancer.

This sweet, charismatic soul stood on the cutting edge of treatments long before they were ever standardized enough for children like Chase. He faced leaving a wife with two little children. And there were days this strong man of business and numbers was so weak that he was carried into the radiation room. But against all odds, he lived. Lived over twenty years after doctors first shook their heads, marveling at a miracle of clear scans where cancer had been.

He stands close as he tells me that he does not sleep much at night, and then a shadow crosses his face as he apologetically explains that he may not remember my name after we talk. “What happened long ago is clear, but these days, not so much…” he shrugs and grins again; “You see, I have short term memory loss.” A concept he doesn’t yet know that I understand too well… I simply smile, “Please don’t even think of it. I don’t care. It’s fine.”

As he stops to catch his train of thought and I reflect on his expression of joy that he’s down to six daily medications from sixty, I have to ask… “How do you do it? I am barely breathing after four years and I can’t even fathom twenty. How…just, how?”

His hands grow steady and his clear voice is especially strong, his gaze deeply focused as he puts forth a phrase that’s clearly been tattooed faithfully in the damaged brain tissues of memory: “You have to remember…’momentary light affliction’. All of this is momentary next to what Jesus did for us.” And then his hands came up to the sides of his eyes, like blinders on a horse, “You can’t look back, you can’t look at anything else, just Jesus.” And just like Chase, he repeated a few more times “It’s all ‘momentary light affliction…” and then a small laugh accompanies the most genuine of smiles; “Can you even imagine?”

I can’t. He breathes twenty years into hell and hardship and counts it nothing because Jesus is enough.

Can I? Will I? I believe…help my unbelief.

And then something flickers in his eyes. “Do you like coffee?” When I respond in the affirmative, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Starbuck’s gift card. “Here,” says the man whose damaged memory ensures he can’t work anymore. “Take this. It was a five-dollar bonus on my Chase card this month. I don’t need it. It’s yours.”

I have short term memory loss… Deeply damaged, yet joyful.

I don’t need it. It’s yours… Empty, yet giving.

It’s all momentary light affliction… Broken, yet pressing on.

And me? I don’t think I’ll ever be able to hold this green and white bit of plastic in my hand without remembering the guileless smile proclaiming that cancer is nothing compared to the cross.

Moment by moment.

“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 4:17-18