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Dear Friends,

We attended an Easter sunrise service on a day the sun did not rise, not noticeably anyway. Instead, at 6 am snow was falling heavily from a dark gray sky. Some friends with property nearby have a tradition of erecting a cross on a hill and inviting others to trudge up it for an early morning service. There were 40 of us in all, 17 kids and 23 adults, as well as a few dogs chasing each other and a corral full of curious horses next door. Three of us couldn’t easily trudge: a teenager with a rare genetic disorder that has damaged his motor nerves, a woman with muscular dystrophy, and me in a neck brace that makes it difficult to look down and negotiate snow-covered fields. Someone brought a Hummer, though, which transported its disabled cargo straight up the white hillside, just as they show in the television ads.

“It’s like the witch in Narnia who makes it always winter,†one of the kids remarked as we stood shivering; last year’s service called for shirt sleeves. A coating of powder soon covered hats and parkas and the xeroxed song sheets we were holding. I had just returned from a trip to Georgia, Alabama, and South Carolina, where every bush and tree was ablaze with color, but on this day in Colorado, Spring seemed very far away.

I’ve thought of that scene often this week, the week that follows Easter, a day that in some ways changed everything and in some ways not. “It’s Friday but Sunday’s comin’!†Tony Campolo famously preaches. Yes, but after Sunday had come and gone, some of the disciples still doubted, the Roman Empire rolled on oppressively, and Jews and Gentiles alike continued to live in poverty and die. Easter is a marker we desperately need, a promise of a world aborning and not dying—and yet how hard that vision is to sustain.

I know, you just wondered how I was recovering, and here I go waxing philosophical. There is a connection, I promise. For two weeks after the accident I walked around in a “daze of grace,†looking at the sky, trees, grass, my wife, my friends, with newly washed eyes. Life holds surprises around every corner, fresh promptings to gratitude and joy.

Then the sleepless nights in a neck brace began to take their toll; woodpeckers hammered holes in the west wall of our house; in an electronic conspiracy the television, microwave, and refrigerator all stopped working. Life also grinds you down.

I am trying to keep before me the crystalline vision I had while lying strapped to a backboard for seven hours. What we spend so much time and energy on (finances, image, achievement) matters so little when you face the very real possibility of imminent death. What matters reduces down to a few basic questions. Who do I love? Who will I miss? How have I spent my life? Am I ready for what’s next? So, how do I keep those questions in the forefront as I come to my desk each day and face piles of paper and blinking electronic messages? How do we sustain the vision of Easter on the other 364 days a year?

I have learned how thin is the thread that separates life from non-life, and how comforting is the knowledge that I am not alone on this journey. I have learned these things in a way that I doubt I will ever forget. I thank all of you who have prayed and sent messages of encouragement.

The 10-day trip to the Southeast was something of an experiment, and mostly it went well. Standing up and speaking for three hours straight is not a good idea, I found, and the twists and turns of greeting people and signing books creates a strain. I spoke at the University of Mobile and at the Bible College where Janet and I met (on the topic, “What I Wish I’d Known as a Student Hereâ€), and Janet and I both got to visit our families. Then, in an act of pure grace, an angelic reader managed to get us tickets to opening day at the Masters. Funny how walking around a beautiful golf course for eight hours is suddenly tolerable, especially when it’s the fabled Masters. One long hole, where we hung out for the better part of an hour, is lined with 1600 azalea bushes.

I have an appointment with the neurosurgeon on April 30, at which time I’ll learn if I need surgery on the discs and ligaments. If all goes well I should start weaning myself away from the neck brace too. Each day I’m feeling less disabled and more normal. I exercise by walking and using a reclining bicycle in the fitness club.

Janet has made enormous adjustments in her schedule, taking on the roles of personal chauffeur and caregiver. She tackles necessary tasks—such as climbing a high ladder to fill woodpecker holes and shoveling the drainage ditch beside our dirt driveway—with energy and a minimum of complaint. It’s not easy for me to stand by and watch her climb on the roof to assess the damage a raccoon just did to our eaves in search of a warm home, or to let her drag both of our suitcases through the airport lines. All in all, though, our marriage has flourished. We’re grateful for each other, and for the prospect of more life together.

My mind goes back once again to that scene early Easter Sunday as our motley crew of crippled and healthy alike huddled together in the snow listening to familiar passages about the shock of resurrection, a shock that produced both fear and joy. An Easter egg hunt awaited the kids; some of the parents were no doubt thinking about their contributions to the brunch. Had they brought enough? Did they remember serving implements? And afterwards, would their car make it down the slippery, curving driveway?

Yet even as we stood there, singing songs and reading from the Gospels, snow worked its magic. Mud-splashed cars, Ponderosa pine trees, rocks in the field, a wooden fence, even the cross—for a window in time, the snow covered every imperfection, and all glistened white.

—Philip Yancey

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Dear Friends,

As I went around the country on a book tour to talk about my latest book (Prayer: Does It Make Any Difference?), often I told the story of getting caught in a horrific storm while climbing Mt. Wilson with Janet. We had summited despite threatening skies, and were still well above the safety of timberline when the skies opened up and pelted us with rain, sleet, hail, and snow. The lightning strikes got closer and closer. I knew we were supposed to separate by 100 feet or so, so that one of us could survive if the other got hit, but instead we held hands and crouched down, making ourselves as small a target as possible. At that moment I got an important insight about life: "Philip, you're not in control." Though a control freak by nature, I realized that what transpired on the mountain that day had nothing to do with me. I was in the hands of far larger forces.

I told that story in Los Alamos two weeks ago and added, "Actually, that statement is always true. No matter what I think, I'm not in control of my life. I could die of a heart attack on stage before finishing this sentence. I could have an accident on the highway driving back to Denver -- far more likely than being struck by lightning on Mt. Wilson."

And, of course, that's exactly what did happen. Most of you have read details of the accident, which I won't recount. I now look back on that long afternoon, strapped immobile to a body board in an ambulance and then emergency room, as a unique gift. All of us will face death, some through a long degenerative illness like cancer and others through an abrupt accident. I had something in between, a window of time in which I lay suspended between life and non-life, with the very real possibility of death within a few minutes or hours, and yet an opportunity to emerge with overwhelming good news, another chance at life.

I hope that I never forget that window of time, or the lessons I learned. Each day I wake up with a profound sense of gratitude for the simplest things: birds flitting from tree to tree, the sound of a creek flowing around rocks and ice near our home, the ability to move a finger, to dress myself. Wasn’t it Samuel Johnson who said when a person knows he is about to be hanged, it concentrates the mind wonderfully. Any near-death experience does that.

I wrote a book called The Gift of Pain, and I've had the opportunity to test that theory too. When I was brought to the hospital, I couldn't have any pain medication until they ran the various X-rays and scans, a process that took several hours. Pain stinks -- until you consider the alternative. I remember thinking how fortunate I was to feel any sensation, a sign that my spinal cord was intact. (I have to keep reminding myself of pain’s gift during the healing process.)

The neurosurgeon believes the bone fragments in my neck are lined up in such a way that they'll heal on their own without surgery. That's why the neck brace is essential: if one of those fragments dislodges, or moves the wrong way, it would endanger the artery. Even a slight bruising of the artery could cause a blood clot to form. I have a spare neck brace to wear in the shower so that I'm never without it. After 10-12 weeks in the brace, I'll have flexion X-ray films to determine if there was also disc or ligament damage. That, too, might require surgery, but they can't really test until the bones heal.

Some of you got an update from Janet on that healing process. She's the real star, of course. I could not design a better nurse or companion. I can't drive and can't lift anything over 10 pounds. If snow is to be shoveled, drains are to be disassembled, or household chores are to be done, the burden falls on her, one she's taken them on with energy and irrepressible good cheer. I told her the other day that her work load has easily increased by 40 percent. We both assume this is temporary, and both think with compassion of people we know who, through some accident or illness, become caregivers for years, even decades.

I've been overwhelmed by support from friends, family, and people I've never met. In the act of writing I spill out something of my soul on the printed page, and at a time like this I realize the remarkable link that can forge, even with strangers. I feel like I've attended my own funeral, hearing people say kind things about me, but I don't have to die to hear them! The month of the accident, I was leading an online book discussion hosted by a Quaker publisher. One of the participants wrote me that Quakers have a phrase they were exercising on my behalf: "holding you in the light." I feel held, believe me.

I've got most of the post-accident hassle behind me, tasks such as recovering what I can from my trashed laptop computer and digging up receipts for ruined auto accessories. I'm trying hard to stay on top of email, working through piles of notes that might give a clue to my next book, sneaking a peek now and then at NCAA "March Madness," and doing my best to rest at night (not easy for an insomniac in a neck brace).

We experience life as a series of discrete, almost random acts. Now and then, though, looking back, it forms a pattern. I'm trying to remember that too, along with the attitude of Dag Hammarskjold, whom I quoted in one of my books: "For all that has been, thanks. For all that shall be, yes."

Philip

Now I worry that the prevailing image of Christians has changed from that of a perfume atomizer to a different spray apparatus: the kind used by insect exterminators. There's a roach! Pump, spray, pump, spray. There's a spot of evil! Pump, spray, pump, spray. Some Christians I know have taken on the task of "moral exterminator" for the evil-infested society around them.

I share a deep concern for our society. I am struck, though, by the alternative power of mercy as demonstrated by Jesus, who came for the sick and not the well, for the sinners and not the righteous. Jesus never countenanced evil, but he did stand ready to forgive it. Somehow, he gained the reputation as a lover of sinners, a reputation that his followers are in danger of losing today. As Dorothy Day put it, "I really only love God as much as I love the person I love the least."

--Philip Yancey, What's So Amazing About Grace?

Any comments or testimonies today?

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