New Light on the Shortest Day

I was on the phone last week with a friend who has terminal brain cancer. He asked me to pray right there on the phone and a lump rose in my throat.

I’ve known Dave Zayonc since he was a chiropractic student in Toronto in the late-1980s. He was an active member of the church we planted there in 1986. Since then he moved to Vancouver, married, had three kids, now has a daughter in law, transitioned from practicing chiropractic to practicing medicine, and became a very popular physician.

A year ago, really in the prime of his life, and in the prime of his career, he got the stunning glioblastoma diagnosis.

Last week on the phone we talked about life and how he’s doing and how he’s doing with God. We talked about fellow cancer patients he’s connected with and how they’ve helped him. We talked about a mutual friend who also had brain cancer and held onto his faith nobly and inspiringly until the end, just a couple weeks ago. All things considered, Dave is doing remarkably well.

Then he asked me to pray with him.

I felt a lump rise in my throat.

Then he asked me to lead the prayer.

My chest welled with emotion.

Lead it? Say it? Talk to God on our behalf? I ignored my thick throat and focused on what he had asked. Without further thought I said, “God…” And we were there—we were now in the presence of something more than just catching up, we were now talking to the eternal, we were now talking to him who sees little difference between life and death, we were now talking to the one who sees the soul and not the stuff, we were now talking to the one Dave will see soon.

And I felt utterly inadequate, I was overwhelmed, I didn’t know what to pray.

Tears rose up again and I pressed them down.

I told God I was at a loss for words. I knew I couldn’t pray cliches or platitudes in that prayer—I had to be honest and real. I don’t really remember what I prayed, I wish I did, but I know I asked for God to strengthen Dave’s hands for whatever would come.

I made it through the prayer without a breakdown. I made it through my farewell to him without a breakdown. But as soon as I pressed the red button on the phone, I broke down. I wept one of those weeps where your first exhale of emotion is held for thirty seconds without an inhale and without a sound. You’re just suspended in release; you’re just suspended in grief. Yeah, one of those cries.

Over the next few days, I found myself wondering why this moment had broken me like it did. Why did going from talking to Dave—to talking to Dave and God change everything?

I’m not really sure.

But here’s my best guess: Talking to God made things more real, it inched me closer to mortality, it made me feel exposed.

Talking surgeries and tumors and therapies and hospitals and survivors was comfortable and logical and relatable and earthly. Even talking about God and faith and the question of ‘why’ was all grounded in the comfortable. But as soon as we actually pulled back the curtain and peered into the darkness and spoke to the unknown and caught a glimpse of that life beyond life, everything changed, it took on a tangible quality, it was like moving from rehearsal to the stage.

At least that’s how it felt to me.

I actually think Dave did just fine. I don't think he welled up with tears at all. I don't think our phone call was transcendent to him because he's already had his glimpse behind the curtain. He's probably already shed his tears and come to terms with the space beyond the senses. His peace isn't just acceptance—it's a kind of grace and humility.

I think the living will have a harder time with his passing than he will. I think his wife and three kids and friends and the hundreds of patients he served as a physician will struggle to process it more than him.

And yes, so will he. Of course. To lose a cancer battle in the prime of your life is mind-numbing to anyone.

So, my brother Dave, as you read this essay for the first time on Saturday morning (he did okay me writing it), December 21, 2024, the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year, the day with the least amount of sunlight, I want you to know that you are a light! You make up for the Solstice! And any physical waves of light we may miss on this day will be made up by the light that you are bringing to the world.

Thank you for shining a light on how to stare down mortality.

Thank you for shining a light on how grace meets tragedy.

Thank you for being a light to your family and the rest of us.

And may God bless your soul.