It’s been five years since his last relapse, but every time I step into the hospital room, it feels like no time has passed at all. The bright white lights hum overhead, antiseptic smells linger in the air, and memories flood back. I’m transported to those waiting room days when he was only a child, sitting for hours while surgeons worked. This is my son’s annual scan, a day circled on the calendar that steals my sleep for an entire week.
He, of course, is not worried at all. He shrugs it off, tells me I shouldn’t stress, and probably he’s right. But how do you not worry when you’ve watched your child endure the unthinkable? The first time he was only seven. The second time, at fifteen, was worse than the first. The was surgery longer, the recovery harder, the pain deeper. I tried to be strong, to care for him well, but even now I sometimes feel I didn’t do enough.
You can imagine I didn’t love that statement. But it came from a place deep within him. He doesn’t think of himself as someone with great faith, but those around him know differently. Faith has been carved into him through valleys most never walk. When you’ve seen God bring you through the darkness, when you’ve felt His hand steady you in the fire, something shifts. Fear loosens its grip. Hope takes root.
My son lives it out, even if he doesn’t realize it. He cracks jokes about his own death, jokes his mother wishes he wouldn’t make, but they don’t come from denial. They come from peace. He said the only nerves he feels in the MRI machine come not from the scan itself, but from knowing his sister and I are wound tight with worry. His calm is genuine. His faith is unshakable.
I guess that’s what happens when you’ve walked through the hardest valleys and found God waiting on the other side. You begin to see life differently. The fear that used to overwhelm doesn’t hold the same power anymore. You know the Shepherd who carried you before will carry you again.
I still lose sleep. I still feel my heart race when we walk into the hospital. But I also see the quiet strength in my son, the faith that suffering has etched into him. And I realize: this is what we all long for. A faith that knows, really knows, that no matter what the scan says, God is here.
And that’s enough.
To Live Is Christ
The cell was dark and damp, the air heavy with the smell of mildew and rust. Chains clinked softly as Paul shifted on the rough stone floor, his wrists raw from iron shackles. A Roman guard leaned against the doorway, his spear tapping idly against the ground, watching with indifference. In the corner, the faithful Timothy sat close to the flickering glow of an oil lamp, parchment spread before him, stylus ready. He waited, as he had so many times before, to record the words of his beloved mentor. Words born not from despair, but from a heart on fire with hope.
By every human measure, Paul’s circumstances should have been unbearable. Imprisoned, awaiting trial before Caesar, his life hung in the balance. Each day could bring a message of freedom, or a summons to execution. The uncertainty was crushing, yet Paul’s spirit was unshaken. His thoughts turned toward the Philippians, those dear believers who had prayed for him, supported him, and shared in his mission. He longed for them to stand firm in Christ, to know joy, even if he never saw them again.
So he began to dictate words that would puzzle the world but strengthen the church: “For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain.”
To the carnal, worldly man, death is the ultimate loss. It strips him of everything he loves: his wealth, his reputation, his comforts, his power. All that he clings to slips through his fingers, leaving him empty-handed. But Paul knew better. For the believer, death is not loss but gain. It is the end of weakness, of frailty, of the endless battle against sin and sorrow. Death delivers the Christian from temptation, sickness, and grief, and ushers him into the presence of Christ forever.
This is why Paul’s struggle was not between dread and hope, but between two good and holy longings. If he lived, his life would remain fruitful for Christ. He would give himself to more teaching, more encouragement, more churches built strong in the gospel. If he died, he would enter immediately into the joy of his Lord, free at last from chains both physical and spiritual. He wasn’t choosing between two evils, but between two immeasurable blessings: living to serve Christ or departing to be with Christ.
There was no comparison in Paul’s mind between this world and the next. The world was laced with sin, sorrow, and death. Heaven was pure gain: freedom, rest, and the eternal presence of Jesus. Yet his love for the Philippians, and for all the churches, compelled him to remain if God willed it. He was torn, not because he feared death, but because he loved life when it was poured out for others in Christ’s name.
Picture the scene: the apostle in chains, Timothy leaning close to catch every word, and joy radiating from Paul’s face despite the gloom of his cell. No bitterness, no despair—only confidence. Only peace. Only Christ.
Paul lifted his head, the chains shifting as he drew a deeper breath. His voice was steady, almost gentle, yet filled with conviction as he spoke: “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.”
Timothy’s stylus hovered in the air for a heartbeat. He looked up, meeting Paul’s eyes, and the weight of the words settled over him. He had followed this man through storms and mobs, through hunger and danger, but never had the truth of Paul’s faith burned brighter. Timothy nodded slowly, his young face marked by awe, then bent again to inscribe the words with care, knowing they would carry life to the church for generations yet unborn.
From the doorway, the guard shifted. He wasn’t a believer. He had no share in these promises. Yet something in Paul’s tone made him turn his head. Death, to every Roman soldier, was an enemy to be feared or inflicted. But here was a prisoner, speaking of death not as defeat but as victory. The guard’s brow furrowed, his grip tightening on his spear, unable to understand how chains could not break a man’s spirit.
Paul’s eyes shone with something more radiant than the lamplight. He leaned toward Timothy, the chains clinking softly. “If I live,” he said, “then I live for Christ. Every breath, every step, every word, it is all His. But if I die, then I go to Him. Tell them, Timothy. Tell them there is no loss for the one who belongs to Christ.”
Timothy’s hand moved quickly now, heart pounding as he captured the apostle’s words. He could feel their weight, not just for Philippi but for himself, for the churches, for all who would one day read them. Paul’s voice, though marked by years and suffering, carried no tremor of fear. Instead, it rose in quiet triumph, the sound of a man who had already won because his life was hidden in Christ.
And in that dim prison cell, with iron and stone pressing close, heaven felt very near.
Lessons for All of Us
And that truth changes everything about how we live right now. If to live is Christ and to die is gain, then fear no longer has the power to chain us. We don’t have to cling tightly to this world, to our circumstances, or to our fragile sense of control. We can live with open hands, knowing that the best is yet to come.
That also means we can finally release the crushing need for perfection. Somewhere along the way, we started believing that if we just planned well enough, prayed hard enough, worked tirelessly enough, then life would line up exactly the way we want. But perfection here on earth doesn’t exist. Our lives will never be flawless. Not every detail will go according to plan. We won’t always have the answers, the timing, or the control. And that’s okay, because control was never ours to begin with.
When Paul said to live is Christ, he didn’t mean a polished life free of weakness. He meant a surrendered life, one where even suffering, even chains, even uncertainty became places for Christ’s glory to shine. And when he said to die is gain, he declared that all the things we grasp for so tightly here, security, success, even survival, fade in comparison to what waits for us in eternity.
So we can live differently. We can take the step of faith we’ve been putting off. We can stop demanding perfect outcomes before we move forward. We can love without fear of rejection, serve without fear of failure, and rest without fear of losing control. Because for the child of God, there is no ultimate loss. In Christ, we have already won.
So live free. Love deeply. Serve joyfully.
Because the best is yet to come.
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