My eyes were riveted to the clock on the waiting room wall. It was a sterile timepiece, one designed for pure utility. It had no ornamentation; it added nothing to the warmth of the room. Its sole purpose was to display the current moment in world history.

Behind closed doors people were suspended in time. For some, the minutes that were passing were the final minutes of life.

I was among those waiting. Families were gathered in a vigil for loved ones. They waited for news of the outcome of surgery. Outside, those who were healthy were caught up in the morning rush toward another day at work. Their minds were on the morning news or the results of the last night’s baseball games. They were sheltered, insulated from the drama that pierces every day in every hospital.

I stared at the clock again. The second hand was not moving in a smooth sweeping action around the face of the clock. This second hand moved with silent, distinct jerks from second to second. Each second was abrupt as if to announce every moment with punctuated clarity. Five-four-three-two-one—another minute had passed. The long minute hand was also moving, but its pace was so slow as to be almost imperceptible.

The rhythm of the clock signaled a growing alarm within me. My visceral reaction showed itself outwardly by sweating palms and an intense need to get up from my chair and pace the room. I had exhausted my interest in the magazines and grown weary of small talk with the strangers around me who were trying to mask their own anxiety.

The clock was telling a story. I did not like its message. The operation was taking too long. The preliminary diagnosis had been “routine.” The surgery was to be corrective. There was no cause for alarm. This type of surgery was done countless times with no adverse results. But it was taking too long.

More time passed. By now I had memorized the brand name of the clock on the wall. The second hand kept jerking from one black mark between the numerals to the next.

At last the surgeon appeared. He was still dressed in his green uniform. “Mr. Sproul?” he asked. “Yes sir,” I replied. “We ran into some complications. I’m afraid that we have discovered a tumor that we didn’t expect. The final results will have to come from pathology, but there is little doubt that it is malignant.”

His words were like a kick in the stomach. I didn’t care about the clock anymore. I calmly asked the question that I wanted to scream: “What’s the prognosis?”

“I’m afraid that it’s not good. We can try chemotherapy, but to be frank, all we can really hope for is some time. This form of cancer is virulent. It is almost always fatal.”

“How much time, Doctor?” I asked.

“We can never say for sure. Six months to a year. Perhaps more if the therapy is effective.”

“Does she know?” was my next question.

“No, not yet. She’s in the recovery room and is heavily sedated. I plan to tell her tomorrow. I would appreciate it if you could be with her when I give my report. I will be in about one.”

“Of course. I will be there. I’m sure she will want to know the truth.”

I had difficulty sleeping that night. I was frightened. My studies in theology gave me no practical knowledge about how to deal with such an illness. How do you announce to someone that they have a terminal illness? Do you disguise the truth? Shield the truth? Deny the truth? Do you hold out false hope? Do you promise a miracle that God may not be pleased to grant?

I approached my friend’s room the next afternoon with apprehension. When I entered she was remarkably alert and outwardly serene. Her eyes told me, however, that somehow she already knew. I was spared any awkward questions as the doctor appeared almost immediately.

He was kind and gentle, yet forthright. “I don’t like what we found yesterday,” he said. In quiet terms he explained exactly what it was. He set forth the procedures for chemotherapy. He explained the damage that was already done to vital organs.

I sensed that among the three of us in the room the patient had the calmest spirit. She spoke to comfort us. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m ready for what God has in store for me.”

My friend lived for two years, surprising everyone, including the doctors. She remained productive. She visited Israel. She got her house in order. She cared for her family. She died with grace and dignity.

During those two years we had many conversations. We prayed together. We cried together. We laughed together. She gave me elaborate instructions for her funeral. She discussed her will with me.

This woman was a Christian. She viewed her final months in this world as a vocation. She prepared herself mentally and spiritually for death. She viewed death as part of life. It was an experience she had never had before. It was the final experience of life that every person must undergo.

—R.C. Sproul, (1996, c1988). Surprised by suffering. Wheaton, Ill.: Tyndale House Publishers.

Read more of “Surprised by Suffering” here.

How many of us, as Christian men and women, are prepared for suffering? Yet as we are reminded again and again by Scripture that suffering will come, and that by many tribulations must we enter the Kingdom (Acts 14:22), still, most of us are surprised by suffering.

We lose things. We lose people. We lose people we love. Accidents happen. Tragedies happen. Like the apostle Paul, we may be buffeted from every side with all sorts of affliction. Some of us, even in severe pain almost to the point of death, and for others, even to death.

As Dr. Sproul inquired: “How do you announce to someone that they have a terminal illness? Do you disguise the truth? Shield the truth? Deny the truth? Do you hold out false hope? Do you promise a miracle that God may not be pleased to grant?”, I fear most of us would not have the answers to his questions. Because quite frankly, most of us are not prepared for suffering.

Most of us go through life with a vision of fairy tale platitudes, that things will turn out okay but when that dreaded phone call comes, we shrivel up to unbelieving spiritual losers.

What a sad display of character. Nay, what a sad display of faith that most of us exemplify when pain and sorrow arrives. Oh, I find it to be tragic at the least of it! For who else but a Christian person can say in the midst of the loss of all things: “The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord. (Job 1:21)”?

Who else but the Christian person can say in times of abject anguish, in heart, mind and spirit: “Now I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I am filling up what is lacking in Christ’s afflictions for the sake of his body, that is, the church… (Colossians 1:24)”

Who else but the Christian can confess in all boldness with the apostle:

But whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God that depends on faith—that I may know him and the power of his resurrection, and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, that by any means possible I may attain the resurrection from the dead.

—Philippians 3:7-10

Oh! dear God, our God. Help us in the might of your grace to see what great a Rock we stand on in Christ. Help us realize the great unshakable confidence that is the stronghold of Your love. We are weak and failing. And we find ourselves always ready to slip to sorrow, to unbelief, to despondency, despite Your indelible promises. You know our frame, O God. You remember that we are but dust (Psalm 103:14). Whom have we in heaven but You? And there is nothing on earth that we desire besides You. Our flesh and our heart may fail but You are the strength of our hearts and our portion forever. (Psalm 73:25-26) May Your grace be magnified in our weakness. Your power in our helplessness. Your strength in our frailty. In the name of Your Son, and for Your glory we ask these things, Amen.