One of my favourite scenes in cinema is from The Lord of the Rings. It is the moment when Gandalf faces the monster on the bridge, declares that it shall not pass, and holds it at bay as the others escape. It is a classic scene, filled with action, love, sacrifice and pure adrenaline. An inspiring piece of film, if ever there was one.
It is the scene that came to mind the night I thought I would die.
I was in bed, in pain, weak, and the skinniest I had ever been. I looked like something out of a 1980s charity advert on hunger. If We Are the World had been recorded in November 2025, I would have been one of the faces the camera lingered on.
Pain and weakness teach you strange lessons. I finally understood why sick people do not swat flies away. It simply takes too much energy. You just lie there, dry lips, hungry, weak and sad. The pain is exquisite, distilled three times like vodka and barrel-aged to perfection. It hurts in ways opioids struggle to touch.
I lay there weighing the implications of what lay ahead. I was sick enough to die. My doctors had said as much, and I felt it in every part of me. I considered giving up, letting go, dying and for a while, I did.
I felt death and saw its merciful side. A clean escape from this broken body. People would cry, yes, but they would move on. In two weeks, I would be forgotten by most, and in time even those who remembered would have to move on. I was suffering; they were suffering. The cold mathematics suggested the best option was for me to exit, fewer bills, one less problematic body being dragged across the earth.
I accepted that I could die. I accepted that the odds were against me. I was at peace.
In my mind, death stood to the left of my bed like a chaperone of mercy, a vanguard of rest.
And yet, in all this, I sensed that death itself was waiting for someone. Someone mightier than death. A God so powerful that even death awaited His word. I was helpless. Medicine could fail. My body could fail. One more failure felt like a failure too far.
As death and I sat together in the dark, becoming acquainted through silence, intimate through unspoken words, I felt another presence. The presence of a powerful love. A powerful father.
Like Gandalf on that bridge—but instead of speaking to death, He spoke to me.
“You shall not die.”
He did not need me to believe Him. He did not need me to tithe. He did not even need death to agree. He said it, and I knew I would live.
Strangely, I was not happy.
Death’s deal seemed better. Instant. Final. No pain. No struggle. No bills. No insurance. No SHA. No doctors. No medicine. No healing process. Just an end.
Not dying meant surgeries. Procedures. Exercises. Healing. Bills. Trauma. Counselling. A thousand small battles. It felt less like mercy and more like a life sentence.
And what a life it has been, where every inch of healing feels like a miracle. From fighting myself to take two sips of water, to managing a teaspoon of mashed potatoes while bracing for agony, to taking a short walk without the terror that I might faint.
I am alive.
But I am also a prisoner. His prisoner.
He rules me. He owns me.
It is a life sentence—a fight for every inch of peace.
May my Master be kind. May He be rich like the father of the prodigal son. May He be merciful. May He feed me well, clothe me well, and find use for this battered body. May He give it purpose.
And may I be a good and faithful servant.
The author is a Strategist and Consultant.
