On Epiphany

I knew of Ryan long before I knew him. He was mentioned every Thursday morning in staff prayer as we prayed for healing for the men in our church who were undergoing chemotherapy for rampant cancer. I knew his name but not his face. His troubles, but not his hopes.
He stopped by the church one afternoon and asked to play the piano. I helped him make himself at home at the baby grand which sat in the cold sanctuary, where we did not run heat during the week. I offered him a space heater, recommended a jacket and turned on the stage lights before heading back into my office on the other side of a thin wall from where the piano sat.
One day, the cold in the sanctuary gave him a bloody nose, so he sat in my office with a box of tissues, embarrassed. We talked about our eclectic music tastes, his diverse musical skills and my utter lack of them, and we became friends.
He came in often. A few months prior, the treatments had become so harsh on his body that he simply could not work. The weeks alternated between his treatment and his piano playing. I grew accustom to hearing "Breathe" by Greg Maroney for hours each day. I told him I admired his playing, and he offered to send me a list of his favorite piano songs.
It took me a month to list to it all, not because it was long, but because I rarely choose instrumental songs in the office. Last Wednesday, on my first day back to work after the holidays, I sent him an email telling him that I finally listened to his list and giving him my favorites.
The next morning, at staff prayer, I learned Ryan had moved home. In the two weeks since I had been in the office, Ryan's tumors had grown. The cancer was pressing against his internal organs and causing him immense pain. The doctors said it was time for hospice.
Hospice. Where people go to die. Where people go when all hope is lost and the end is near.

Epiphany. The day the historical church celebrates together the kingship of Jesus. The culmination of the Christmas season, in which we celebrate the life of Christ and all that he has done for us. We cheer together as a church that light has overcome darkness and that the hope of the Messiah is present with us.
My church is liturgical; therefore, each year we celebrate Epiphany. We talk about the Magi, the bearing of gifts, and the hope that this truth gives us. This year, we still did these things. We still sang "We Three Kings" on our way out of church and talked about the nations coming to worship their king. We also talked about Ryan. We talked about death and fear and sadness. We talked about loss, about young life, about cancer. Pastor Jeff mentioned Ryan's faith, his willingness to see what God had in store for him, without anger or resentment. He talked about Ryan's way of rejoicing in the Messiah on his deathbed.
We printed in the bulletin, one of his drawings which he made for our Advent theme this year. It is a picture of an open door, shining a bright light into darkness, and a crowd of people standing in the back. Some are choosing to enter the light while others remain in darkness. Ryan has chosen the light.
Rev 4:1 -- "After this I looked, and behold, a door standing open in heaven! And the first voice, which I had heard speaking to me like a trumpet, said, "Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after this."