We Fading Flowers: Faith Reflections from a Cancer Oven (#21)
[A note from our Managing Editor: Tim Shorey, pastor and author, is one of our Gospel-Centered Discipleship staff writers. Tim is also currently battling stage 4 prostate cancer. On Facebook and CaringBridge, he’s writing about his journey. We’re including some of his posts in a series on our website called “The Potter’s Clay: Faith Reflections from a Cancer Oven.” To preserve the feel of a daily journal rather than a published work, we have chosen not to submit these reflections to a rigorous editing process.]
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We Fading Flowers
July 14, 2024
“A voice says, ‘Cry!’ And I said, ‘What shall I cry?’
All flesh is grass, and all its beauty is like the flower of the field.’”
– Isaiah 40:6
Dear Journal,
By all accounts, my hair has taken a definite recent turn toward the grey, and nothing but grey—a report confirmed by a glance at last year’s pictures and this year’s mirror. Even worse, what is literally grey on my head is figuratively true everywhere else. My whole body is greying. Without a whisper of exaggeration, I’ve aged ten years in the past two. I am a fast-fading flower.
Consider Isaiah 40:6, which is part of a brief conversation between God and Isaiah, which I think may be paraphrased something like this:
GOD: “Isaiah, I want you to ‘Cry’ or ‘Cry out’ (for that is what I’ve called you to do)!”
ISAIAH: “But Lord, what shall I cry out?”
(???): “All flesh is grass, and all its beauty like the flower of the field . . .”
Since there are no punctuation marks in the ancient Hebrew text, it’s hard to tell if the statement after Isaiah’s (“What shall I cry out?”) is God’s or the prophet’s. If it’s God’s, God is telling Isaiah what to say, namely, to tell people in effect that they are nothing but sun-withered grass and sun-wilted flowers at high noon in a wilderness during a heat spell.
But if it’s Isaiah’s statement, he’s telling God that there hardly seems any point crying out to tell people anything. After all, his hearers were little more than sun-withered human grass and sun-wilted flowers who seemed hardly worth the effort.
Whatever the case, what we have here is an accurate description of our human condition: We are sun-withered grass and fading flowers.
There’s more to this in Isaiah 40:7–8. But for now, I am struck by this simple statement: All flesh (i.e., every single human being) is grass, and all its beauty (i.e., all human existence, looks, vigor and vitality, power, accomplishment, greatness, and alleged beauty) is a fast-fading flower.
This brings to mind a series of similar texts that warn of the fleeting existence of man:
“Man is like a breath; his days are like a fleeting shadow” (Ps. 144:4).
Man’s life can be measured with a twelve-inch ruler (two hand-breadths) (Ps. 39:4–6).
“All [man’s] days pass away . . . they are soon gone and we fly away” (Ps. 90:9–10)
[On a balance scale] man’s side “goes up” while the empty side “goes down” (Ps. 62:9).
“[Man’s life is] but a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes” (James 4:14b).
So I am but a fading flower, a fleeting shadow, a morning mist, a weightless lighter-than-air wisp, and a mere breath.
I need to pause to ask, “How is this comforting? Isn’t Isaiah 40 supposed to be about God comforting us as his people?”
Yes it is.
And this is comforting if we remember who Israel was up against. They were facing angry godless hordes of Babylonians with seemingly boundless power and absolute control. The Babylonians boasted of their beauty and flaunted their power, much like tyrants, politicians, power-brokers and modern villains do today. But in truth they—back then and now—are all but passing mortals whom we need not fear. They are no more than withered weeds and wilted flowers.
This is also comforting because it puts me and my doubly-diseased life into perspective. It reminds me that we are all fading flowers, that in the end we’re all mortal, and that my illnesses and prognoses do not make me different from, or worse off, than anyone else. They simply prove that I am passing tumbleweed.
It is good for me to remember my mortality, number my days, visit funeral homes (Eccles. 7:2–4), learn wisdom (Ps. 90:12), and “live on the edge of eternity, being packed up and ready to go” (to quote Dr. Packer). I don’t know who first said it, but I’ll echo it here and now: No man is righty prepared to live who is not first, prepared to die.
My cancer and Isaiah 40:6 remind me that my flower is fading fast, and I am better off for knowing that it is so.