By: David McGovern
These three pictures below show me in different places or contexts. In one, I am in the studio, in another, I am outside a public library, in the regional town of Singleton. The third and final picture places me outside a coffee shop (leaning into its name, and my own sense of faith and spirituality, I wanted to make a joke about me doing ‘the Lord’s work’!)
Each of these pictures captures a moment in time. If there is one common element, it is the fact that I am smiling. Each time, I have taken a selfie, and I have been able to smile at the camera that is looking back at me simply because I know I am doing something I love. Engaging with others, reading a newspaper, writing scripts – these are among the moments when I sense my life is approaching the lip of my cup. There is peace and there is satisfaction.
And yet, away from these pictures and the spaces depicted in them, there is a deep sense of uncertainty. Questions persist: “Where am I going?” “What am I doing with my life?” “How else can I contribute and make a difference?“
Recently, it was the 15th anniversary of my son’s death. On September 28, 2010, my late wife, Celena, and I gave back to the God we both believed in our second child. In that moment, he joined his sister, Amber Rose, who had passed away a decade earlier, on October 10, 2000.
I know that much of my questioning and discernment is coloured and impacted by these losses. Grief is a constant presence in the lives of those who experience it (I have come to describe it as a form of emotional limping, where your gait, the way you walk and do life, is changed forever).
A psychologist could have a field day with the whole mindset that I now bring to my daily dynamics and interactions. Being a Dad without any fathering to do and a husband without a spouse to love is a unique and singular experience; your sense of identity is rocked, and you question so much about your purpose in life, your direction, your roles.
When I found myself returning to the gym, some years ago, I used to tell people that I was doing it to honour my wife and children, all of whom were born with various medical and health challenges. Their bodies didn’t work the way some of us can so easily take for granted. I saw it as my responsibility, my obligation, to work on my health and fitness, because at least I had a choice.
This, I now see, is flawed logic. I need to work on my health because that is a good, right, and important thing to do, in and of itself. Celena, Amber and Brodie don’t need me to lift weights, run long distances or stretch out on the gym floor because, right now, they are with the Lord, in Heaven. For them, there is no more hurt and heartache, only peace and joy.
I go for coffee and read the paper because it is something I enjoy doing. I volunteer at the radio station because I now see I have skills and experiences that can contribute to what this station is about. I hone my writing because I continue to believe I have a story to tell and a message to impart.
The places I visit and the roles I play at each of them are pointers that my work here on this earth is far from over. Rather than pursuing the image of filling my cup, I am reminded of the Bible account of Jesus attending a wedding in Cana. There, he is asked by his mother to do something about the shortage of wine that has occurred.
In a reflection on this passage that I heard recently, it was observed that, as humans, we tend to point out all the empty casks we have to fill – out of duty, obligation and loyalty – with water. It can be tempting to feel overwhelmed with the magnitude of the task that lies before us.
Here’s the rub, however. That Bible story is very clear that Jesus only identified six casks of water for Him to transform. In the ensuing miracle, I find a life lesson to take into each radio studio, each coffee shop, each public library: “I have given you six casks of water to fill, David – it’s up to me to turn the contents into wine.”
“I have given you six casks of water to fill, David – it’s up to me to turn the contents into wine.”
Article supplied with thanks to Rhema 99.7.
Feature image: Canva
