Pancakes

Mac was one of my favourite people.


Mac was funny, often inappropriately, which of course, made him funnier. He was kind, valuing and including the people he met, whenever and however he met them. He made great pancakes. He was, by no means perfect, which he would be the first to admit. He was determined, at one stage holding the world record for the longest drumming marathon. He was strong, even right at the end. 

I've been wanting to write about Mac for a long time, because he had such a big influence on me. This week would have been his birthday. He always manages to sneak into my thoughts in mid-April, even though it's been nearly four years since he died. The memories just keep popping up. The time he taught me 'Afrikaans', of course, using my ignorance to make me say stupid things. All the times he, and his wife, Diane welcomed me into their home. The two day car trip from Port Shepstone to Cape Town with five of us in the car. The time we raced home from town through the gorge after Diane had found a snake in the house. All the times he, very convincingly, mocked my accent (get owyt naowu, wynd yer neck in). The many Sunday evenings we would gather at Di and Mac's house for pancakes. 


Mac was diagnosed with lung cancer in 2007 and died a year later after fighting hard. For a long time, I weighed up whether I could and should make the trip back to South Africa to see him. I can't explain how glad I am that I did. Di and Mac picked me up at the airport before one of Mac's hospital appointments. The first thing he said to me was, "You're so white! I'm not even as white as you, and I have cancer!" Ah, the old Mac humour. That week I spent with them was incredibly blessed as I got to share a small part of the journeys of two incredible people. 


Despite all the circumstances, what I witnessed that week was hope and life. Naturally, there was a lot of sadness, but also real joy. Every day was seen as a blessing by the man who carried on with his life right till the last day. He wasn't the same Mac then as the Mac I'd met 4 years previously. He had an amazing serenity and wisdom about him. I remember one night, just after he'd taken the morphine that allowed him some mild relief from the pain, he gave me better advice about boy dramas than anyone who wasn't in a morphine induced daze. His attitude was inspiring - often he would be the strong one, while everyone around him was fighting to hold it together. He had faith that he could be healed, but if not, there was a better place for him anyway. Those weren't just words for him. You could tell he knew they were true. 


I had a lot of questions when Mac got sick. It didn't make any sense to me. Why would God take someone like Mac? Mac, who had so much to offer the world. Mac, who had impacted so many people. Mac, who was talented, funny, kind, generous. I guess, if anything, I learned that it doesn't always make sense, but even when it doesn't, God is still good. And if we only trust him and worship him when times are good and all our prayers are answered, He's no more than a genie in a bottle, controlled by our whims. I don't want to worship a God like that. 


Death is never easy. It was never meant to be easy. Maybe it was never meant to make sense. And I miss Mac, but the end isn't what I remember. What I remember is his journey, his life, his hope. It was a privilege to be a part of it.


And I'm sorry if you never got to eat his pancakes.