Former Senator Ben Sasse wrote recently, “Last week I was diagnosed with metastasized, stage-four pancreatic cancer, and I am gonna die. Advanced pancreatic is nasty stuff; it’s a death sentence. But I already had a death sentence before last week too—we all do.”
That recognition—living while dying—has been the defining lesson of our year.
A Year That Clarified Mortality
In the fall of 2024, my wife, Kathryn, underwent cervical spine surgery. The procedure itself went well, but a complication during the bone graft caused a fracture in her hip that left her wheelchair-bound and in severe pain for months. What initially appeared to be medication-related side effects eventually revealed themselves as something far more serious: a cascade of neurological symptoms affecting her movement, speech, swallowing, and emotional regulation.
For a season, Kathryn was bedridden. I helped her dress, helped her in and out of bed, took over driving, cooking, cleaning, and every household responsibility. My ability to travel for speaking or consulting effectively ceased, leaving our income almost entirely dependent on my writing. This was not merely an inconvenience—it was a reordering of our lives.
What followed was a harrowing search for neurological clarity. Appointments were difficult to secure. Doors remained closed. Then, in what can only be described as a providential convergence of prayer, relationships, and timing, we were seen by a highly acclaimed neurologist in Wilmington who conducted the necessary tests herself.
Her initial conclusion was devastating: bulbar-onset ALS, among the most aggressive and terminal neurological diagnoses. The prognosis was unambiguous—loss of speech within months, loss of swallowing within a year, respiratory failure within two. We were told, plainly, to prepare for death.
And we did.
We moved swiftly toward acceptance. Funeral plans were made and discussed. Caskets were considered. When death is placed before you with that degree of clarity, denial feels irresponsible. You learn quickly what matters—and what does not.
A Reprieve, Not an Escape
Even as we prepared, our church community prayed insistently for a different outcome for Kathryn. Neurological diagnoses are notoriously complex, and ALS carries a documented error rate. As part of a process of elimination, Kathryn was placed on Sinemet, a Parkinson’s medication known to have no effect whatsoever on ALS.
The response was immediate—and decisive.
Her symptoms improved dramatically, ruling out ALS entirely. What had appeared to be a death sentence was withdrawn. Relief, gratitude, and disbelief arrived all at once. It took me weeks to adjust emotionally to the reversal. We were overjoyed—but sobered.
The diagnosis, while no longer terminal in the same way, was still severe: Parkinson’s disease. Unlike ALS, Parkinson’s is unpredictable, deeply individual, and relentlessly messy. Medication regimens must be constantly adjusted. No two trajectories look alike. As the year closed, Kathryn found a degree of stability—not resolution, but manageability.
We were spared one form of death, but not the reality of decline.
The Caregiver Also Bleeds
Late in the year, my own body demanded attention. When the caregiver goes down, everything trembles.
A respiratory infection escalated into pulmonary edema. Tests followed. Medications multiplied. A nuclear stress test revealed a dramatic drop in my heart’s ejection fraction—from borderline survivable to deeply concerning. I now live with the daily awareness of fragility, nitroglycerin in my pocket, and the real prospect of further cardiac intervention.
This awareness has clarified my days. It has disciplined my habits. It has sharpened my resolve. Weight has come off. Illusions have fallen away.
Time is no longer theoretical.
Work Done Under the Shadow of Mortality
Despite the weight of this year, two books were completed. Aspirational Masculinity was published in late summer. Liminal Leadership is scheduled for release in early 2026. Another book—perhaps the capstone of my vocational calling—has already begun to take shape.
I do not experience this as productivity. I experience it as stewardship.
We are living through a profound change of age—one centuries in the making. The cultural frameworks that once held us are dissolving. The church must respond with wisdom, formation, and courage equal to the moment. That burden has not lifted; it has intensified.
Ordering Our Days
A friend recently remarked that this year felt like wilderness—preparatory, clarifying, costly. I agree. This has been a year of reckoning, of counting the cost, of ordering one’s days. We are now preparing to cross the Jordan.
Psalm 90 has become deeply personal to me:
Teach us to number our days,
that we may gain a heart of wisdom.
I have no interest in retirement as our culture defines it. I prefer re-fire-ment. I am acutely aware of my limitations—and equally aware of the work that remains.
Living Well While Dying
Death and dying are not the same. Dying happens while we are still living.
The challenge is not merely to accept death, but to live faithfully into it—to love well, work wisely, and remain attentive to grace as our strength fades. It is here, and only here, that we discover what we truly believe about God, time, and meaning.
This year has taught me that God’s grace is sufficient—not abstractly, but concretely, daily, and often quietly.
We know how this ends. The question is how we will live until it does.
