Lots of things fall into place when you face death. All these things at the edges of life—muddled questions, doubts and fears, hopes and dreams—they crystallize. Everything gets illuminated by a clarity that only desperation brings.
I stare at my wife as she naps because she was up all night, and I think about all that we wanted out of life—and how fleeting it all is, a breath in the wind.
And Jesus speaks to me there on that bed, telling me I’ve been blind to how much I’ve needed him.
Right now, I think, my every breath depends on you, and I might not get another one. But a month ago, I needed you just the same. And there, at the edge of life and death, clarity sets in.
Each day, 34 years at that point, was a gift—whether I realized it or not, whether I gave thanks for it or not. With my eyes closed, with the sound of death’s tattered robes billowing, all that really matters is how much I need Jesus.
How burst pulmonary arteries opened @swordandpencil’s eyes to the gift of an ordinary life in Jesus:https://t.co/aQ5gy6ZmHf
— Christianity Today (@CTmagazine) February 25, 2025
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