Evensong, 16^th July 2006
‘Perfect Love Casts Out Fear’ – 1 John 4.18

I retired 19 years ago and have always been in good health and blessed with considerable energy.  I was never really ill in my life and never in hospital.

In September, 1993, I went fishing in Scotland with my younger son, and we had a great two days and both caught a salmon.

For the past few weeks I had noticed certain symptoms, which I chose to ignore. Back home, however, I decided to go and see my GP, which I did the following day.

He examined me and said that he thought I should see a specialist as he would like a second opinion.  Something was not quite right.

Forty-eight hours later I was in a consulting room at a private hospital, early one morning.  Margaret, my wife, and I drove over before breakfast.

The doctor was pleasant, examined me carefully and then left the room with a specimen he had taken.

I was swinging my legs on the examination couch when he returned a few minutes later, closing the door quietly and looking straight at me.

‘Mr Williams, I am afraid that you have something in your colon which should not be there, and it needs removing as quickly as possible.’

I came straight to the point.

‘You mean cancer?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

At that moment, quite unbidden, quite unprompted and quite unexpectedly, a message flashed on the VDU screen of my mind – like a caption on a TV screen - ‘For lo, I am with you, even to the end.’

Instinctively, without any consideration or pause, I immediately shot up an arrow prayer:

‘Lord, I can’t handle this, but I know you can ! I know that whatever happens you will never let me go and you will always love me.   You have never let me down yet.  So I am going to turn over all this problem to you and not worry at all.  I am passing the burden to you, Lord!’

Immediately there was a tremendous sense of peace and calm.  As though a big earthing switch had been pulled.  Any apprehensions I had were stilled and rested.   I felt an overwhelming sense of relief and relaxation.

We talked about arrangements for the operation and I left and collected Margaret from reception and went out into the car park on a sunny September morning.

Before she could say anything, I said, ‘I have to tell you that I have cancer in the colon, but there’s no need to worry and I am not in the slightest afraid.’

She then said a beautiful thing.  She hugged me and quietly told me, ‘I only wish it were me and not you’.

The weeks of waiting to go into hospital were filled with activity as I got on with my life.

I wrote one or two letters, which I sealed and put in a drawer.  I told my family, of course, and a few friends.  I went down to the cottage in Salcombe and did some work there.

One morning, on October 21, 1993, to be precise, Margaret drove me over to Kingston Hospital, where I checked in and was taken up to a ward where I put on a white gown, sat on the end bed by the window and looked over the townscape of Kingston, wondering where Bentalls and Marks & Spencer were located.

There were tests and medication to take, and a helpful young doctor and an anaesthetist came and talked to me and told me what was going to happen.

I had a good night’s sleep, wakened at seven o’clock, was given some relaxing pre-medication, and then at eight o’clock was put on a trolley and bumped and wheeled along the corridor and into a big lift.

I remember the lights overhead and the whirring of the lift as we went down to the basement, where the door opened and I was pushed into an ante-room where the medical team waited.

At the age of 72 I was about to make my theatrical debut at Kingston Hospital.

In the bright lights the face of the surgeon, Joe Cahill, showed smiling, re-assuring eyes above the mask.

I lifted myself on an elbow and searched underneath my pillow.

‘Good morning all.  I’ve got a letter for you’, and handed an envelope to the surgeon.

‘A letter?’

It was hardly expected, but he tore it open and read:

‘Dear Mr Cahill, 51 years ago today precisely, at latitude x and longitude y in mid-Atlantic, I was torpedoed and survived.   Today with your skilled professionalism and that of your team, I hope history will be repeated!’

There was a burst of laughter as I had an injection into my wrist and slid off from the shallow shore into the deep.

I woke in the recovery room, decorated with tubes and wires.  Margaret came to see me.  I was quite calm.  The operation had been successful, I was assured.

I spent more than a week in hospital.  The days were long, punctuated by medical procedures and visits from family and friends, and the nights were much longer.   I was not in any great pain although there was discomfort.  I used to curl up in my warm bed, close my eyes and think of God’s loving care and that whatever happened I was going to be OK.

I was discharged, then invited back for another operation by a very clever plumber/locksmith, who did some keyhole surgery on a nearby part of my anatomy.

For a while I walked around with a bag.  Then after Christmas I had 29 ‘fry-ups’ of radio-therapy at Charing Cross Hospital, where they were very pleasant and helpful.

Strapped to a huge machine which was zapping any ‘nasties’ still remaining, I had to lie motionless while the monster whirred and ticked over me.   I used to count the seconds, and during this time I prayed and thanked God for his kindness and loving care.  I also wrote to the team who looked after me, at the end of the course, and thanked them.

I got on with my life.  Every day was a bonus and blessing.

Walking became a problem as I had an arthritic right knee, so I had the joint replaced in 2000 – my Millennium present to myself.

On the morning I went to hospital I looked at my knee in the shower and said to myself: ‘By this evening you will have a new knee with a joint free from pain’.

I went into the operating theatre once again in cheerful heart.  ‘For lo, I am with you, even to the end…’

Life continued, and I was getting older, but enjoying my retirement enormously.

During the autumn of 2001, however, I noticed I was getting short of breath.  After walking for a quarter of a mile or so I was having chest pains.   A ship’s doctor consulted during a cruise for a minor infection had checked my heart and suggested I saw my GP for a check-up.  I had let his advice lapse, however.

On Christmas Eve, Margaret and I went out to the car to go to the carol service at Christ Church.  When I had a sudden chest pain, however, I decided to go and see my GP instead, which I did.

He examined me, gave me an ECG examination, sent me off for Christmas with some medication and instructions to take things easy; and arranged for a consultation at Kingston Hospital’s chest department.

There I was told I had had a minor heart attack, unknowingly, and an angiogram was required.

When it took place several days later, the consultant leant over me at the end of the procedure and said: ‘I’m afraid three of your arteries leading into your heart are clogged up and quite useless’.

‘What am I going to do?’, I said, explaining that I had no medical insurance although I had paid for the angiogram privately so as not to waste time.

He explained that the surgeon he would most highly recommend was coming to the hospital that evening and would come and see me.

Three hours later a small quiet man came into the room, introduced himself, examined me – and confirmed I needed urgent heart surgery.

Again I asked what was I to do?  Should I have the operation at that private hospital?

Curiously he burst out laughing!  ‘Don’t have it here, as I gather you have no private medical insurance.  It will cost you an arm and a leg!   I will put you on my list at St George’s in the morning.’

I went home in strange high spirits!

Three weeks later sudden chest pains during an episode of Inspector Morse impelled me to dial 999 late one Friday evening, and I went to Kingston in an ambulance for the weekend.  I was well looked after.

Four days later I was taken to St George’s, Tooting, where I was put into the huge ward for heart patients.  I remember I had to shave my chest with a fairly blunt razor and cold water, in a chilly antique bathroom of this Victorian wing.

I remember a conversation with the Registrar, who explained what was going to happen to me and answered all my searching questions.  ‘After all, it’s my heart, Doctor!’

‘Promise me’, I said to him, ‘that when you open me up and take my heart out, you will confirm that the name ‘Margaret’ is written on it’.

‘I promise’, he said.  Afterwards he said it was – ‘but it’s a secret between us!’

After a sound night’s sleep I was prepared for the theatre next morning, and went down in good heart, so to speak.

There was a team of three or four surgeons.  Apparently they work on the chest, legs, thighs and ankles simultaneously, taking arteries to be used as the new pipes for the heart.

No letters from under the pillow this time, but again – once again – a sense of peace and calm in the assurance of God’s unfailing love in my time of greatest need.

Once again I was a survivor.  After a week the consultant said that I was obviously bored – ‘and you can go home provided you do all the things you need to’.

And so I have got on with my life, gratefully and happily.

Two years ago I was given the gift of second sight, with two cataract operations which mean that I can read a newspaper in good light without spectacles.

What have I made of all this?

I have proved that perfect love casts out fear.  That God’s love for us – ‘For lo, I am with you even to the end of time’ – has been readily available for me to take away all my fears.  And it is available for us all.

But we have to ask.

I believe in a God whose love is so overwhelming that it drowns all fear.  A God who is our best friend and wants us to be happy and to enjoy life.   A God who is there for us every day and always.

I am not a very holy person or a very good person.  I regard myself as a ‘limping Christian’.  But I know that God loves me for what I am and for what I am not.

So, what of the future?

At the age of 84, I realise that I am nearer the check-out than most of us.  But I have a trolley with a load of wonderful blessings.  And I push it in hope.

‘For lo, I am with you - even to the end of time’.

I have a small crumb of faith, which I cherish.

What is the point of having a crumb of faith unless we use it!

‘For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory’.

Amen.