A few months ago I stood upon the rocky shores of Malta and gazed out to sea. I pondered what it must have been like nearly 2,000 years ago as the Apostle Paul leapt from a battered, broken ship and made his way ashore. There are a number of spots on Malta that claim the historic pedigree as the place he landed. The most widely accepted candidate is the aptly named Saint Paul’s Bay. It has shoals and reefs capable of causing a ship to run aground and beaches capable of receiving shipwrecked passengers. If it is not that specific location it is certainly one nearby.

I have never been aboard a ship that was so blown and tossed by the wind that the crew had lost all control of her. I have never been aboard a ship that was in such a precarious situation that all hope had been abandoned and all thoughts of rescue set aside. I have never been in a situation in which I could only count down the hours and minutes to my demise. But if I ever am, I hope I will react like Paul did.
While the expert sailors frantically tried to save themselves by undergirding the ship and securing its boat, by lowering the gear and throwing the tackle overboard, Paul took a different approach to the emergency—he turned to the Lord. While the sailors carried out their responsibility, he carried out his. And then something remarkable happened: An angel appeared before Paul and told him “Do not be afraid, Paul; you must stand before Caesar” (Acts 27:23). God had a plan for Paul that involved him getting to Rome and appealing his case before Caesar himself. That being the case, the storm could not possibly claim him. He, like each of us, was immortal until God was ready to call him home.
But there was more to the angel’s message than this. He also said, “God has granted you all those who sail with you.” Though it was Paul alone who was meant to stand before Caesar, God’s grace toward Paul was extended to everyone else on the ship. It was extended to his fellow missionaries and to the soldiers and sailors, to the Christians aboard and to the pagans. Paul had prayed for each of them and God would grant the same blessing to each of them. Little wonder, then, that Paul could stand before them and say “Take heart, men, for I have faith in God that it will be exactly as I have been told.” Though they must still be shipwrecked, they would escape with their lives. And all because Paul had prayed.
And this makes me wonder how many times God has blessed the people around us because of our prayers. Just because he doesn’t send angels to tell us that he has answered our prayers doesn’t mean he doesn’t answer them just as freely. Just because he doesn’t communicate so explicitly, doesn’t mean he doesn’t deliver just as dramatically. Paul’s God is our God, and he who answered two millennia ago has lost none of his ability and none of his willingness to answer today.
Are you in the habit of praying not only for yourself and your family, and not only for your friends and your church, but also for the people around you? Are you in the habit of praying that God would bless and deliver not only you but also others? As modern Western society teeters and groans at what seems like it must be the beginning of its end, do you pray that God would intervene and deliver not only you and not only his people, but also everyone round and about? Do you plead that his blessings would extend far and wide?
Aileen is an avid gardener and, through the hot summer months, waters our lawn and garden with great care. The other day I noticed just how burnt and brown our neighborhood is in mid-August. But I also noticed just how green and lush our lawn is by comparison. Then I noticed something else as well: As Aileen waters our grass, the water sprays and flows to some of the nearby grass as well so there is a fringe of green beyond our own lawn and outside the boundaries of our own property. And just like that, this little story from the book of Acts tells us that God’s blessings flow not only to his people but also beyond them. It is God’s good pleasure to answer our prayers and to grant his blessings not just to us, but also to others. And who but God can know what blessings they hold, what pleasures they enjoy, that flow from your prayers and mine.

Like so many Canadian boys of his era, Nick went through a pretty significant Nerf Gun phase when he was 8 or 10 years old. Between several birthdays and Christmases he built up quite an arsenal and, for a time, most of his play would in some way involve these guns. There was one game he especially enjoyed. When he found out that guests were on their way over, he would hide outside and watch for their approach. When they walked down the pathway leading to our home, he would pop out of his hiding spot and unleash a fusillade of foam bullets. He loved nothing more than a successful ambush. And though his guns are no longer in his hands and he is no longer in our home, he still sets ambushes, though only inadvertently.

The unbearably sharp pain of those earliest days and months has over time given way to something that is perhaps closer to a dull ache. The loss still hurts, but not quite as badly as it once did. I still cry, but not every day. The path is still hard, but not as hard as it was months or even weeks ago. If time does not heal all wounds, it does, at least, soothe them.
One of the ways the pain has become more bearable is simply by having Nick less on my mind now than in the early days. As I get on with a life that has begun to feel like a new kind of normal, I associate him more with the past than with the present or immediate future. My love for him is undiminished, of course, as is my longing to see him. But he is not as constant a presence in my mind now as he was before. I still think about him every day, but no longer every moment.
But there are still times when he ambushes me, when a situation arises in which I’m once again forced to confront my loss head-on. And this, as it happens, is one of them. We are in Louisville, Kentucky this weekend for two significant events. Today we will attend the ceremony in which Nick’s fiancée Ryn and a number of his friends will graduate. On Sunday we will celebrate Abby’s wedding. We anticipate that it will be a weekend of great rejoicing.
Yet behind the joy we know there will also be some sorrow. After all, this would have been Nick’s graduation as well. Though he had enrolled in a program in which he would complete both his undergraduate degree and his Masters of Divinity in five years, he was scary smart and very hard-working and was on track to complete it all in only four. And so this is the day he would have graduated twice over, once from Boyce College and once from Southern Seminary. This is the day he would have finished up one phase of his life to begin another—to finish up his studies and begin his ministry. Yet, in God’s providence, his name will go uncalled in the long roll of young men and women who step up to receive their diplomas, who throw their caps into the air to celebrate the end of one phase of their lives and the beginning of another.
As soon as the graduation ceremony is over, we will change our focus to Abby and Nathan’s big day. We know, of course, that Nick will be conspicuous by his absence in the wedding party, in the family photographs, and in the speeches. He, after all, was Abby’s close confidant and dear friend and would have had a prominent place at the wedding. He, after all, was immeasurably precious to each of us. Yet, in God’s providence, he has joined into a different kind of celebration and has taken his place at a different kind of feast.
But whether in graduation ceremonies or wedding celebrations, we intend to rejoice rather than weep, to celebrate rather than lament, to look forward rather than back. We believe that God calls us to enjoy his good gifts, even when our hearts have been broken. And we can do this, for one of the paradoxes of life in this world is that in our deepest sorrows we are never without joy and in our highest joys we are never without sorrows. We learn that there are times to rejoice with those who rejoice and times to weep with those who weep—and that we have no right to demand that the rejoicing weep or that the weeping rejoice. There is “a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”
And so this a weekend of laughing, not weeping, of dancing, not mourning. There may be some ambushes along the way and the tears that come with them, and that’s just fine. But we are certain that the joy of these days will be far more prominent than the sorrow. We are certain that God means for us to embrace and enjoy the pleasures he has provided, to celebrate what actually is rather than to lament what could have been. For each of these celebrations in its own way points us forward to a future in which there will be no pain left to lament. Each of life’s pleasures in its own way gestures us toward a time in which there will be no sorrow left to grieve. Each of God’s blessings calls us to rejoice. And by his grace we will.
(Here’s a precious picture that was taken just a couple of days before Nick died. Nick and Ryn had recently gotten engaged while Abby and Nate had recently begun dating. It was Abby’s birthday, so they all went out for dinner together. I’m so thankful they thought to ask the waiter to snap a photo.)

It is a question an author once asked, a question that intrigued me. Which man was more free: was it the emperor or was it the missionary? Was it Nero or was it Paul?

Was it Nero in his palace surrounded by attendants, his table overflowing with delicacies, his eyes overwhelmed with visual delights? Or was it Paul in his prison cell surrounded by soldiers, bound by chains, dependent upon the charity of others? Was it the man who was free to come and go as he pleased or the man who was held captive?
It is always an exercise in encouragement to read the book of Philippians, but the encouragement flows all the more when we consider the context in which Paul wrote it. Scholars agree that Paul wrote this letter from prison and most likely the prison in Rome in which he was confined around 62 AD. He writes to the citizens of a Roman colony in Philippi to remind them how to live as citizens of a heavenly kingdom here on earth. He writes to encourage them and to rejoice in all God has done and is doing. He writes as a man who, though bound, is free as free can be.
It was not when he was freely treading the road between Athens and Corinth but when he was a prisoner of the Imperial Guard that he said, “rejoice in the Lord.”
It was not when he was standing before great crowds of eager listeners but when he was able to speak to only one or two at a time that he wrote with humility, “I want you to know, brothers, that what has happened to me has really served to advance the gospel.”
It was not when he was receiving acclaim and affirmation but when he himself was in the darkest of circumstances and facing the possibility of death that he commanded, “Do all things without grumbling or disputing.”
It was while he was within the stark walls of a prison that he wrote, “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice.” It was when his mind may have been overwhelmed with anxieties that he commended the value of constraining our minds to think about whatever is true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, commendable, excellent, and worthy of praise. It was when he was indefinitely confined and uncertain of his future that he said, “I am glad and rejoice with you all. Likewise you also should be glad and rejoice with me.”
What could have been the epistle of fear is instead the epistle of faith. What could have been the epistle of grumbling is instead the epistle of cheer. What could have been the epistle of doubting God’s goodness is instead the epistle of hope, joy, and spiritual encouragement.
Nero may have been nominally free, but was more rightly bound—bound by sin, bound by paranoia, bound by dissipation despite his high circumstances. His life would end in an ignoble death that was either by his own hand or by the hand of a friend. His reputation is one of abnormal cruelty and he has gone down in history as the man who serenely played music while Rome burned around him, possibly at his command.
Paul may have been nominally bound, but was more rightly free—free to love, free to serve, free to worship despite his low circumstances. His life would end in the glory of martyrdom and he would gladly face the executioners to receive the crown of glory. His reputation is one of unsurpassed devotion to God and he has gone down in history as the foremost theologian of the Christian faith.
So which man was more free: was it the emperor or was it the missionary? Was it Nero or was it Paul? The answer is plain as day. And the answer challenges us that we are most truly never bound, for nothing can imprison our hearts and keep us from rejoicing. Nothing can bind our mouths and keep us from professing Christ. Nothing can bind our abilities and keep us from serving others. Nothing can keep us from glorifying God and serving out the purpose he has assigned to us, whether in a palace or a prison. We are always free to love, free to serve, free to worship the God who has saved us and will someday receive us to his side.