Having wrestled with his own “issues” the apostle Paul accepts that God is not going to change his situation. It would seem that the Lord Jesus had spoken to him personally: “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12 v9). We know the words well, of course, but it’s taken me a lifetime to accept this. I’ve certainly tried to disprove the apostle Paul’s testimony. Not consciously, of course. Not defiantly. Just quietly. Over the years my actions (and unspoken attitudes) have revealed as much.

Right now, I’m “processing”. And writing is helping me. Perhaps it will help you face the deep stuff inside all of us that we seldom face truthfully. It’s July 2021, and I’m struggling through another period of ill-health. And I’m asking God that question we all ask from time to time: “Why?”

It’s a running joke between Val and me, that, being a good few years my senior, she is the one who is supposed to be slowing down and feeling her age. Yet, for decades now, it’s my health that’s let me down. We laugh about it out loud. “Poor old chap” she says, when I’m trying (and failing) to put my socks on. I couldn’t quite believe that things had got so bad, when a dear friend visiting us recently said, in all honesty, you really ought to apply for PIP. You’ll certainly qualify for the basic care award, if not for the enhanced award. Suddenly I felt truly decrepit. He was talking about ME being eligible for governmental support to maintain my independence! And then we started to go through all the things that Val does to help me keep going. And, it’s not as if she’s been totally without health challenges of her own in recent years. Val’s cervical spine is badly affected by arthritis, and she has been in near constant (and increasing) pain for probably five years now. We thank God that her consultant in Salisbury finally succeeded in dealing with her pain by way of an anaesthetic injection a few weeks ago.

For my part, I’ve got a catalogue of health problems. There’s my pulmonary sarcoidosis, for a start. It’s a little known disease that can affect every part of the body. Mine is focussed on my lungs, and when it flares I struggle to breathe, and walking becomes difficult. Even at the best of times, walking and talking is almost impossible. I’m supposed to try and exercise, to use whatever lung capacity I have, or face losing it. That’s why Jack’s such an important gift in our lives. The treatment for my sarcoidosis has it’s own story. Going right back, I was under an excellent consultant at Papworth hospital in Cambridgeshire. She did all the right things, and prescribed the steroid drug, prednisone, to try and reduce the inflammation in my lung tissue. She wasn’t to know I was to have such a dramatic reaction against this powerful steroid. And as if crafted to cause maximum impact, I was on sabbatical leave in Australia when the worst of it hit, and Val was in the U.K. To use the technical terminology, I had a full-blown steroid induced psychotic episode. So, here I was in a far-off land, behaving very strangely indeed with people who, for the most part, had no idea who I was. That heralded a month-long stay in the Royal Brisbane hospital where I had the best of care (mainly from British doctors and nurses). We can see God’s hand in that. They thought of things that hadn’t been considered before, and they diagnosed a possible underlying mental health condition that quite probably predisposed me to the psychosis. That little episode brought to an end the second of two pastorates that have been derailed by my health crises.

Eventually we returned to our beloved South Coast. Having first lived in Bournemouth in 1981, we’ve always had a soft-spot for the area, so it was a complete joy when the Lord opened the opportunity for us to come to Poole in 2014. It really did feel like coming home. One of the first questions was finding medical support that we could really trust. My first GP on Canford Heath was excellent. And Papworth referred me to a leading respiratory consultant at the Southampton General hospital. Over the past years, Ben Marshall has become a friend. I’ve got his email and phone number, and if I’ve got an issue with my sarcoidosis he will respond to me within hours. He was horrified to hear that I’d essentially lost my job because of a bad reaction to prescribed medication. The Christian church doesn’t always cover itself in glory. And not for the first time, we realised that had I been in secular employment I would have enjoyed much better protection. It’s a salutary thought, but a powerful (and painful) reminder that being a paid minister of the gospel is very complicated. I’m waiting to see Ben again right now (consultancy referral number 1, and by far the most important).

Ben Marshall determined that I should never be prescribed prednisone again. That meant he would need to find another drug-regime to manage the sarcoidosis. My new drug-of-choice is azathioprine. It’s a powerful immunosuppressant that’s usually given to transplant patients. Like every drug, it has unwanted side effects. This one pre-disposes the patient to skin cancer. Within a few months, I’d started to see evidence of this. As any one who has watched our online services during the pandemic will know, there have been several weeks when I’ve had to wear a baseball cap to cover up the unsightly treatment on my scalp. As I write this article, my fingers and thumbs are erupting (again) which makes simple tasks like doing up buttons almost impossible. That’s where my darling comes in, and the peculiar eligibility for PIP. Happily I’m still able to tap away on a computer keyboard and, for the most part, can still play the piano. The latest flare with my skin problems has been referred to the dermatology department at Poole – consultancy referral number 2.

Oh, and then there’s my degenerative disc disease (or “bad back”). My father had it. My grandfather had it. I guess it was inevitable that I would get it one day, and I’ve been struggling with back problems for twenty or more years. Every now and again the pain is so severe that I end up on my hands and knees squealing in agony. And my wife, bless her, is the one who comes to the rescue. Even on good days, I can’t touch the floor. Picking up Jack’s poo, requires me to get down on both knees, and then there’s the ignominy of trying to get up again. I’m not ashamed to say other dog walkers have occasionally come to the rescue. I was offered a spinal fusion quite a few years ago (my dad had one decades ago) but I declined because my father’s experience wasn’t great. I’ve “managed” my condition with painkillers, but I now find myself asking “at what cost?” These are heavy-duty opioids that are addictive. I don’t think it’s too much to say my ministry in Cirencester was brought to a premature close in part because of the impact of prescribed medication at the time. As I write this, my back pain is really bad, and I’m taking more tramadol than’s good for me, and have been doing so for years. My GP did a 360 degree review a few weeks ago, and expressed real concern about how much medication I’m taking. Referral number 3.

Then there’s my mental health. I’ve always had the sort of personality that experiences gentle rises and falls. I feel things very deeply. I’m quite creative. I’m also reasonably visionary. Those positive traits have a darker underside. C H Spurgeon could tell you about it, as could countless other preachers and evangelists over the years. I hesitate to give it a label, though some psychiatrists have over the years. Right now, I’m not exactly in the slough of despond, but I am having a time of intense self examination. I’ve spent the last 17 months telling my online congregation that COVID-19 was going to impact us all, and that every last one of us would find ourselves challenged in ways that we simply couldn’t see coming. Quite why, I’m not sure, but I’d managed to exempt myself from all that. And then, one day, something little happened that really shouldn’t have affected me as profoundly as it did, and it was as if I’d been hit at speed by an express train. Well, if I’m really truthful, both Val and I were impacted. The incident itself is inconsequential. More than that, I’ve come to be thankful to God for bringing everything to a head.

Ministry is a peculiar thing. When everything is going well, you don’t really think about yourself, or your future, or your security. But when something unsettling happens, you are suddenly aware of just how vulnerable you are. We live in a church house. We don’t have our own home. People forget how that feels. When my ministry in Cirencester came to a close, the church generously allowed us to stay for a few months, but then one of the elders came to say we were essentially being evicted. The following nine months saw us stay in 42 different places, and somewhere along the line we had to say goodbye to our beloved Labrador Caleb, because it just wasn’t fair on him. My dad took him in, but we were devastated.

That experience of extended homelessness has had a profound impact on us, and when something difficult happens in church life we can go into immediate free fall. That’s what happened early on the morning of Saturday 22 May. As I say, it was something small. Insignificant even. But the impact has been unimaginable.

So, right now, I’m off work with work place stress. My GP says I’m unlikely to work again this year. She keeps reevaluating me, but wants me to see a specialist. Referral number 4.

So, where is God in all this? Well, he’s here. Just as he is for anyone who is in the midst of uncertainty and difficulty. I’ve preached it enough times. God seldom airlifts us out of our troubles, but he does parachute in to walk alongside us, and, if things are really bad to carry us. Val and I are being carried right now. Jack is a ray of sunshine. I’ve found a new capacity to write, which has eluded me for years. I guess it’s my way of processing stuff. There are a few things I know for certain. I love my wife with all my heart, and don’t know what I would do without her. I love Jesus, and have come to trust him more than I ever have, since that Palm Sunday in 1974 when I confessed my faith in believers’ baptism. I love people. Perhaps too much. The tears are streaming down my face as I write this, because there are so many people I want to hug, and talk to, and pray for, and love. But right now, I can’t face actually meeting anyone. Okay, we’ve see a few family members, and some very close friends, but more widely, I just can’t face it. My capacity is at an all-time low. I’m awake at 4am and desperately tired all the time. I’m unpredictable, and emotionally vulnerable. The tears come unexpectedly and, apparently, for no reason.

There’s an old adage attributed to various sources. Wherever it came from, it’s certainly true. “This too shall pass”. And it will. Right now, I’m just holding on to the Lord, and trusting him to sort it all out. I’ve had to let everything go, and I’ve had to stop feeling responsible. Actually, when you think about it, we may laud those who are highly responsible, but in reality they are often controlling personalities who are arrogant enough to think that if they don’t look after whatever it is, then it will all fail. Perhaps that’s me. I really don’t know, but I have let go. Use whatever analogy you like. If it’s spinning plates, then they are all smashed on the ground. If it’s juggling balls, then I’ve dropped every last one. I’ve even relinquished my interest, fascination perhaps, with global politics. It was only winding me up, and shouting at the TV isn’t conducive to healing.

I’ve often been accused in the past of failing to communicate clearly. I know why that is. I process things very deeply indeed, and I only tend to open my mouth (or pick up my pen) when I’ve got things straight in my own head. Perhaps that’s what this post is about.

So, if you’re a member of my church, and you’re wondering what’s happening to your pastor, maybe this will help you understand – and pray. Please pray. And if you’re a friend from years ago, some of this won’t surprise you at all. It may even make a little more sense. And if you’re a family member, I hope this helps you too.

And, finally, if you’re overwhelmed by your own troubles, and nearly all of us are, then draw comfort from this truth. God’s power truly is made perfect in our weakness. If we want to experience his life-giving healing power, then all we need to do is let go of our own vain attempts to cope. I have, and I hope you will too.