The Luckiest Manنموونە

  Nothing will ever be on the tabletop of your life again. Just me.

Looking back, I don’t suppose it was as much of an admonition or command. Instead, it was a declaration, a statement that my God would come to me, would make himself known to me. I didn’t understand that then, though.

I think I’ve got it now, Lord. It’s just you and me from this day forward.

There was sorrow—how I’d searched for worth and validation in so many things other than God, how I thought those other things could somehow help me measure up. I’d only just begun to understand this when the diagnosis came screaming into my life. Then came confession—I’d misplaced my dependency; I’d attached myself to many other things. Next followed agreement—my priorities would be different from now on. That’s when the love came—the deepest, gentlest, most unfathomable love. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. . . .

I knew that God loved me. He loved me for me, not for what I could accomplish. He wanted to spend time with me more than He wanted me to accomplish anything for him. For what seemed like an hour, He allowed me to sit in that loving acceptance, to sink into it. This was a closeness I’d never felt—a real, tangible presence. . . .

As if there was too much light in too-dark a room, I couldn’t see at first. But as I sat in that epiphany, I realized it—I’d let too much of the stuff of earth compete with God, even Margaret. I’d pushed God into smaller and smaller spaces as I let my ego fill larger and larger spaces. There was more sorrow. More confession. It was followed by more of that deep, abiding sense of unconditional love, the love that I’d done nothing to deserve.