When I first became a Christian, death looked like leaving my family behind. Wrestling, night after night with whether I could trust a God my family didn’t believe. For months, I refused to do it. I love them – and where they went, I followed. But Christ’s call was to follow Him and not them. And I had to make a decision; just as they have to make theirs.
That was a big choice. And over the years there have been others. The way I live. How I use my resources – my body, my mind, my time. Turning points, where following Jesus has felt like choosing death. Dates chiseled in my timeline. Moments I’ll never forget.
But for the most part, the dying isn’t in the big events or the mammoth choices. It’s small and constant. Every day I wake up and think I’m ok. Every day I try and go it alone. I have to die afresh – to my own resources, to my own efforts, to my own wisdom. I look at these things: independence, strength, my sense of self. I feel their loss. And I realise, with a jolt – they were already dead.