“Do you know that PS’s brother has committed suicide?”
That was the first thing I was told when I got into Loke’s car, joining him and Jack for tea at a night hawker’s stall.
“No. When was it?”
“He was diagnosed with cancer earlier and became depressed for quite some time. When he was accompanied by his father and younger brother to the hospital for treatment on Tuesday, he made an excuse to go to the toilet alone and jumped from the fifth floor of the building. I only learned about this just now in the afternoon. I think the funeral is over. Nevertheless, let’s go and visit PS.”
A sense of guilt flashed into my mind.
Even though I had never met PS’s brother, I could have shared the gospel with PS long time ago after I had accepted Jesus. He might or might not have believed. At least when his brother was facing such a difficult situation, PS might have remembered my sharing and told his brother about the good news. And the brother might have thought, “Why don’t I just believe? At least there is hope.”
What have I done for him?
Then I thought of my late father who had also been diagnosed with cancer. The doctor estimated that he could live another six months to two years. I was still optimistic. I thought when I went back to my home town once a fortnight, I would see his conditions improved. Instead, I saw Dad, who used to be jovial, lying on his armchair, the face downcast and the body progressively weakened. I could have told him that Jesus had assured us that if he trusted in Him, there were many rooms in God’s home, and Jesus was going to prepare a place for him (John 14:1-2). There might have been a glimmer of hope in him.
Less than two months later, Dad went into a one-week coma, only during which I whispered to his ears repeatedly “Dad, God loves you. Jesus loves you” and the verse of John 3:16. There were tears dropping from his close eyes sometimes, but he never woke up.
What have I done for him?
Jesus died on the cross for us when he was almost at my age. What have I done for Him?
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