House on the Rock

I remember pulling up to Indiana Wesleyan on freshman move-in day. My family lugged couches and crates of clothes up dormitory stairs to move my baby brother into the rival school just up the road from Taylor. We bantered about whose school was better while I secretly resented his pristine, nearly new, fully air conditioned living quarters — a second-story suite that made my apartment seem small.

It was that day that I was introduced to Cam’s roommate, Hunter. A 6’7 baseball player famous for his “unhittable” pitch, I wondered how on earth he was going to sleep comfortably in their bunk arrangement. Or in any arrangement. At 6’7, he made my not-so-little brother’s 6’3 stature seem small.

Hunter proved to be not only a stellar pitcher but a steady friend throughout their time at IWU. The two of them, along with a handful of other teammates, engaged in a weekly Bible study, endured a season shut down by COVID, and started running a small homemade jam business, affectionately named The Jam Fam. I felt so grateful that my brother picked up selling jam in college and not anything else (😉). This endeavor made all my measly side hustles seem small.

Next thing we knew, the Jam Fam had diplomas in hand — out to the real world, many of them set to be married that summer. Cam stood as a groomsman in Hunter and Marci’s wedding as my parents looked on, a faith-filled ceremony well worth the drive to Goshen. When the news broke that my mom wouldn’t be able to attend Cam and Riley’s actual wedding, Hunter and Marci made that same drive in reverse to their impromptu hospital ceremony. I’ll never forget the emotion Hunter displayed — his pouring tears a beautiful portrayal of his tenderhearted compassion. I thought of how infrequently I had truly wept over other people’s suffering, and I marveled at his empathy which made mine seem small.

And it’s interesting, now, to consider that only a year later, that very tears-pouring, jam-stirring, record-setting roommate received a world-rocking diagnosis called Glioma, with tumors on his brain and a year or so to live. From afar (Facebook and updates through Cam), we heard of how Hunter endured memory loss, personality changes, vision impairment, brain surgeries, chemo, and eventually, hospice. Often, I would find myself weighed down with minor inconveniences in life, and I’d click open Facebook to find a Hunter update which made all of my troubles seem small.

But through it all, his faith never seemed to waver. The steadfast strength of the Lord was his anchor, so much so that many of their posts professed nothing more than the goodness of God. We heard he was radiant with peace until the very end, not fearing death but holding fast to the hope of Heaven won for him by Jesus. Conversations I had with his wife and parents confirmed that Christ really had become the center of their lives more than ever before amidst this devastating diagnosis. To the very end, he exhibited a faith and steadfastness that makes my own seem small.

And as Marci and I wrote back and forth about Heaven, we marveled at the fact that Hunter, so emotional as he watched my mom wheeled through a hospital wedding, would be one of the first people in our sphere to get to see her in glory. My mom would be in that eager line, not far behind Jesus, ready to wrap him in a hug and welcome him home. His good days are only getting started and he’s free from any sort of sickness or sin — all because King Jesus died so that we might always live. Forever and ever and ever rejoicing, feasting, alive and unceasing in the presence of his precious Savior. It’s a future to look forward to — an eternal home we long for — and it sure makes this time here on earth seem small.