On outliving my father

My father died when I was 9 years old and he was just short of 56. Although my life took a very different path to his, something about the age of his passing remained with me as a significant mark on the horizon. It is hard to determine what that milestone meant for me: I don’t think it was an expectation that I would not live longer than 56; but I do think that it somehow felt like the measure of a life.

For most of my adult life, I have struggled with the feeling that I have failed to fulfil my potential and with a fear of dying before I had done whatever it was that I was supposed to do. When I had lived the same number of days as my father, there was a sense that in one way I had now lived a whole life. If there were things that I should have done or achieved – well, it was too late now. The journey was complete, for better or for worse. There have been times when I feared I would not outlive my father; there have been times when I feared that I would. Now that I have outlived him, I feel released from that nebulous pressure to achieve.

I have passed this milestone as the work I have been doing for 8 years has come to an end and we are returning to the UK from nearly 7 years in Asia. The familiar landmarks seem to have disappeared, but instead of being bogged down with dread I am looking forward with gratitude and excitement to what lies ahead.

To mark the occasion, we took a boat trip. Below are my reflections from the three days we spent at sea.

19th February 2025

Today, by God’s grace, I have outlived my father. After 20,396 days, my father passed from this world into the unknown. I am grateful to be in this world still, though in some sense I too am passing into the unknown. Around the same hour of the day that my father departed this life in Switzerland, I set sail through the limestone karst islands of Ha Long Bay in Vietnam. And so I find myself quite literally at sea.

It is February. The sky is grey and there is a light drizzle in the air. A misty veil covers the islands. At times it is so thick that the landmarks disappear from view and the sky blends into the sea to form one featureless canvas.

It takes time to prepare the cloth. It takes time to gather and mix pigments; to source materials and fashion tools; to observe, to study, to experiment, to fail, to learn. The wealth of all that has passed has been pressed down and preserved in this ark that now carries me. I cannot see, and I scarcely dare believe, but I do hope and wait with expectation for the riot of colour, life, beauty and joy that will appear in this next oeuvre.

20th February 2025

Legend has it that dragons came down to protect the people of this area from foreign invaders and that is why the bay is called “Ha Long” (Descending Dragons). The karst camel humps across the water look like the petrified undulating bodies of legendary creatures that passed away centuries ago. This sea of tombstones is shrouded with misty dust-sheets, like the furnishings of a stately home in the wake of the passing of the previous inhabitant. What will remain and what will go; what will be revitalised and what will be broken up; what will be brought forward and what will be left behind; what will be repurposed and what will be discarded? Now is not the time to decide. Now is the time to acknowledge the passing and to allow the dust to fully settle.

Outside, layers of rock that have built up with eons gone by now look down on the latest generation of water boatmen paddling these ancient waters in search of squid and a living. How soon they too will pass away.

Yesterday, we stepped inside a cave hollowed out in one of the islands. Stalactites dripped from the roof; stalagmites grew from the floor: calcium in the rock, picked up and deposited by tiny rivulets of water continually at work beyond view, beneath the surface. I too am dusty: from dust I came and to dust I shall return. And where, I wonder, might the waters of life deposit me?

21st February 2025

Our ship’s tender deposited us on a small beach dominated by a large Indian Almond tree that we viewed through an eyelet in the rock face.

Although it had been battered and damaged in a devastating typhoon, the tree was still strong and healthy. It reminded me of God showing Jeremiah an almond branch to remind him that He was watching to see that His word was fulfilled. Truly His word will not return to Him empty but will accomplish what He desires and achieve the purpose for which He sent it. And so to Him I entrust my life and into His hands I commit my spirit.

We were paddled around a calm oasis of still waters, protected on all sides by tall mountains teaming with life. Originally, only a narrow gateway had led into it from the stormy seas outside.

Back on board, we were treated again to a sumptuous feast with wine and music and beautiful images in an idyllic setting. It was a reminder of one of Jesus’ favourite ways to talk about what it is that He is calling us into.

The day ended poignantly with two films: “Migration,” and “No Time To Die,” with its invitation to let go of the spectre of the past.

On the third day, I visited the “Cave of Surprises,” in which I moved from one sanctuary, with a pool of fresh water from the rain, through a narrow gateway into a much larger space, and from there into massively more spacious shelter again, which then allowed us back out into the fresh air with a view of the horizon more like that of the eagles above than of the crabs below.

With that, our three days at sea came to an end and we were returned to land once more to reflect and process and discern where we are being led to next. As we prepare to migrate between continents, I am happy and at peace and grateful that this is no time to die but a time to live.