“Our once great western Christian civilization is dying. If this matters to followers of Jesus Christ, then we must set aside our denominational differences and work together to strengthen the things that remain and reclaim what has been lost. Evangelicals and Catholics must stand together to re-establish that former Christian culture and moral consensus. We have the numbers and the organization but the question is this: Do we have the will to win this present spiritual battle for Jesus Christ against secularism? Will we prayerfully and cooperatively work toward a new Christian spiritual revival ― or will we choose to hunker down in our churches and denominationalisms and watch everything sink into the spiritual and moral abyss of a New Dark Age?” - Mark Davis Pickup

Thursday, January 23, 2020


There is such a thing as a grief from which we never truly recover. There are loves that never die. I have experienced both.

It was exactly fifty years ago my father died. He was part of that generation broadcaster Tom Brokaw called the 'greatest generation.' They were raised during the Great Depression of 1929-1939. They fought in World War II against the Nazis and Axis forces; they did not do it to be recognized or for fame. They simply did it because it was the right thing to do.  

My father was born in 1917, during the Great War. He was not afflicted with a miserly disposition that many people were left with from suffering depravation of the ‘dirty thirties.’ Quite the contrary, my dad was generous to a fault with his money and his time.  He was a deeply committed Christian. He loved me from the day he discovered my mother was pregnant. 

From my first memories of childhood, his unconditional love, gentle but firm nurture and manly good nature loomed large over my world and early formation. We were two peas in a pod and I worshipped him. I shouldn’t have but I did. Even fifty years after his untimely death the smell of old books and pipe smoke (rare these days) reminds me of him. 

In January of 1970, dad and I went downhill skiing on a bright and sunny afternoon, just as we had done for many years. The sun reflecting off the white snow intensifying the brightness and pleasure to be outdoors in a crisp Canadian winter day. I remember the wind in my hair, breathing the clean cold air, the sound of my skis that sprayed snow with each turn. Everything was perfect.  I remember it like it was yesterday.  Dad was skiing ahead of me. Suddenly he collapsed face down in the snow. I stopped,
quickly ripped off my skis, and ran to turn him over. His eyes clouded then rolled back into his head. My father died in my arms from a massive heart attack that day on a ski slope. The experience is indelibly and forever burned into my memory. He was fifty-two years of age. I was sixteen.  

That was the grief from which I have never truly recovered and that is why I remember it like it happened yesterday. I am sixty-six years old now and I have thought of him every day since that cold January day in 1970.

My father would not fit into the New Dark Age of the twenty-first century. Then again, nor do I. He would be horrified to learn that Canada has overthrown its Judea-Christian roots for nihilism, that acceptance of truth has been replaced by relative truth, versions of truth, truth based upon personal feelings, situations and circumstances.

He would appalled to discover that children are taught all kinds of perversion in public schools—beginning in kindergarten. My father would be stunned to discover that marriage, as it was known for hundreds of years, has been redefined and that divorce rates hover near fifty-percent of all marriages, and countless children are being raised in single-parent homes where their father is absent.  He believed children need and deserve to be raised by their mother and their father. So do I.

My father loved children. It would have broken his heart completely to learn abortion has become a right and millions of children have been killed before they ever saw the light of day.  In Canada, a woman can have an abortion for any reason at all or no reason whatsoever and have as many abortions as she wants, and they are all paid by taxpayers.  He would be horrified to learn that Canada legalized euthanasia. He would weep to discover Canada is contemplating expanding euthanasia to the mentally ill and children. 

I think he would regret coming back to discover that those things he held most dear, and Canada once embraced—like the sanctity of all human life—is all but gone.  We are a pale reflection of the great nation he knew, loved and served.

Sleep in peace, my father.  You wouldn’t want to see what we’ve
become and I would not want to watch your heart break completely. There is such a thing as a grief from which we do not recover.  Sleep in peace. Sleep in peace.

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