The Gift In A Gasp.

I have trouble writing these days.

I’ve talked about this idea before, but for those who might be new— I often begin writing, not because I feel like I have much to say, but in the process, I discover that I have everything to say.

To tell you the truth, lately, I’ve been a little overwhelmed. Mostly because I fear that what I discover that I have to say might require action? and how does one react to another problem to fix, another worry to absolve? This has been my plight for a few months now. Not only do I have things in my heart to say, but I fear that the transparency required in sharing, will pull me to a level of sincerity that, to be honest, I just am not ready for.

November 2021.

I turned 24 and was fortunate enough to spend this in Canada with my friends. It was easily one of the most fulfilling moments of my adult life. Whilst I relished each moment dearly, 3,468 miles away my father was fighting—in my life, what I would visibly consider the hardest battle I’ve ever watched him navigate. I have heard the stories of what he conquered before I was born, and I have also witnessed him battle, beat glaucoma, then overcome total blindness, but never would I have thought that my father of all people would begin to fight a Cancer.

It’s been tough.

I had last heard about it in my final year of uni, and I had written about how I had felt at that moment. To tell you the truth, I had believed that, that would be the last time I would hear about it. But Alas, nearly a year later, he was fighting again.

Whilst chilling with my friends one day in Canada, my mum called me on WhatsApp. I usually don’t talk to my parents every day, as we’re usually in some sort of dialogue. The usual call would be a quick check in, maybe once every 3 days with a follow up comment like “Jojo, why are you in the middle of nowhere”. See I travel a lot, so for safety I share my location with my mother all the time— Biggest mezzop ever lool.

But this call was different.

“…Josiah where’s your asthma pump!!” She exclaimed.

I scurried through my memory, trying to map out where I had last dumped this pump I hadn’t used for years. I stayed calm as she tried to break down what was happening.

My father was choking.

The last few months before this moment were gruesome. Not only was he fighting over the varying opinions of doctors, and his personal conviction from God, but he had spent prolonged periods of time in excruciating pain, alone in the hospital ward, with the occasional visit from my mum. Covid restrictions meant that I hadn’t seen or really heard from him, but I was comforted occasionally by the messages he’d send to let us know how he was doing. A week before I left for Canada, he had been discharged. It was nice to have him home again.

No one really had told me how severe the situation was, but I spoke to my father one night, and he explained really what was at stake. It was his voice. He had cancer of the Larynx. The larynx is located above your windpipe and is more commonly known as your voice box. The situation at hand meant that there would be a possibility that my father would lose his voice. Now my whole life I had seen the enemy strife to take away my fathers’ voice. A man of such spiritual stature, I had seen him under attack again and again, but for some reason, this one hit differently.

Truth be told, my love for my father had dictated the manner in which I lived my life. Our random 4 am talks where we would fellowship, share scripture and just talk, would dictate the quality of life I grew to adore. At my core everything I desired to be, I would see possible through those exchanges. I remember having our conversation with him before I had left, and a voice in my heart told me to record the conversation. I was scared to be obedient, but inside the nudge grew. It became imperative that mid conversation I decided to take my phone out and record that conversations. I didn’t want to be right, but I knew that this may well be last audible conversation I had with him.

That last hospital return for my father signified 2 options only. He was at great risk of suffocating in his sleep due to the blockage in his larynx, and he could go at any time, so the next step was to take that risk as God moves, In hopes that he would show us another way, or the next time he chokes risk suffocation and leave the doctors with the choice to to forcefully remove his voicebox totally. Which came with a plethora of risks, and ultimately a life changing procedure.

My father didn’t want to lose his voice so easily, he was waiting on the voice of God, he was waiting on the voice he heard so loudly.

So as he waited, we waited with him.

I sat on the phone call across the ocean helpless, overshadowed by the echoes of my father gasping for air. I cut the phone to allow my mother to call the emergency services. I had found out a few months later that whilst I was away they had given him 2 weeks to 2 months to live.

I remember resuming my day casually, calm and hopeful. I prayed in hopes that God will provide a solution that would preserve the desires of my dad’s heart. I wasn’t concerned with the risk of loss, but I really hoped that for my dad’s sake, he would not feel disappointed in God no matter the outcome. He had faced death multiple times, so we weren’t worried about that, but more so the pain of disappointment.

I hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed.

Later that week in , he woke up with no voice. They had taken out the cancerous matter and we had begun another marathon of things to overcome. That voice note now meant everything to me.

I had always dreamt of a time when my father and I would have a podcast where we would share some of the life-changing conversations I got to have in those early hours of the morning, and maybe continue on in ministry together, as I would support him in his mission to touch the hearts of young people.

I was heart broken. I had hoped that in the last hour, God will step in and do a miracle, but he didn’t. Well he did, my father is alive, but at the time—within the fog—It was hard to see the miracle. What I desired was for him to return with his voice, but instead he returned with his life.

I had to check my heart.

I spoke to my dad on whatsapp a few days after he began to make sense of the world. He sent me a message that he address to only myself and my sister, which I cannot share but the dialogue that followed on is one that moved and continues to move me.

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My Spirit Can Never Come Down.

I later came back from Canada, and a few weeks later my father arrived home. He had undergone tracheostomy, where an alternative hole for breathing was created. It was an incredibly complex process, and I remember being comforted by him. He had sent me this message whilst recovering.

I had seen multiple pictures of him with wires coming out of his neck and face, I had eventually got to hear how severe the situation really was, and overall I was incredibly shocked by how he upheld his honour with Grace, and in some way was my comforter even in his affliction. I chuckled cause Jesus! haha.

I remember my mum seeing a picture one day and going “chai, God”. We had both in that moment really only just realised the reality of what he was constantly living in.

In my whole life, I have seen my father work on his relationship with his father in heaven, and with such valour and strength, through every situation, I see him rise, each time with fewer words, but more wisdom.

The last few months have been painful. I miss those long talks we had. I can honestly tell you that a part of my life feels different. I mean to lose a voice so key in your life… Man, it changes you.

But, I am comforted by his words.

These days we spend a few minutes here and there, as he clasps his lips ushering a few words of wisdom. And I grasp dearly unto them. Even in their few, it gives me everything I need.

If you were looking to read something with a happy ending, then consider this… This story is not at all sad.

In my life, I’ve not only heard of an identity to die for, but I have seen the beauty hidden in that identity.

Romans 14 tells us that each of us should be absolutely convinced of what we believe. and with no doubt in my heart, I have met a man who is absolutely certain of what he believes.

That is who I aspire to become, and even with no words, God makes it clear that my eyes can see.

I am hopeful, but as I wait. I am grateful.

I conclude this weeks writings hopefully to encourage someone that time in itself is the testimony. I hope to show someone a true character, and most of all, I hope to show us all that Life is often appreciated not in the breath, but in the breathlessness.

Sometimes it takes a gasp, to truly appreciate the gift.

We’ll talk soon

JH.