The Time That Remains

After my heart bypass surgery, I thought life would become a little kinder to me.

Perhaps life would slow down.

Perhaps the demands would reduce.

Perhaps the world would look at me and say, “Alan has suffered enough. Let him rest.”

It did not happen.

The bills continued.

My children continued to grow.

Medication had to be bought.

Work still had to be done.

My family still needed me to provide and protect.

Life did not become kinder simply because I had been sick.

But something did change.

I no longer saw time in the same way.

Before surgery, I lived as if there would always be another year.

Another opportunity.

Another family holiday.

Another conversation.

Another chance to do what I had been postponing.

After surgery, I began to accept something I had always known.

My time is limited.

So I started asking myself:

What will I do with the time that remains?

A Generation Comes and Goes

Ecclesiastes says:

“Vanity of vanities,” says the Preacher,
“vanity of vanities! All is vanity.”

What does man gain by all the toil
at which he toils under the sun?

A generation goes, and a generation comes,
but the earth remains forever.

There is no remembrance of former things,
nor will there be any remembrance
of later things yet to be
among those who come after.

Ecclesiastes 1:2–4, 11.

When I first read these words, they sounded depressing.

All is vanity.

A generation comes.

A generation goes.

People work, build and sacrifice.

Then, eventually, people forget them.

The word “vanity” gives us the image of vapour. You can see it for a moment, but you cannot hold it. It passes through your fingers.

That is our life.

We are here for a while.

We make plans, raise children and accumulate possessions and memories.

Then one day, our place at the table becomes empty.

The world continues.

I sometimes think about three hundred years from now.

Perhaps my children will remember me.

I hope my grandchildren will remember me.

They may tell a few stories about the kind of person I was.

But three hundred years from now?

Probably nobody will remember my name.

Nobody will care what car I drove.

Nobody will care about my job title.

Nobody will know how much money I had in my bank account.

Ecclesiastes does not allow me to pretend that achievement can make me permanent.

If I will eventually be forgotten, does that mean my life has no meaning?

Seventeen and a Half Years

In 2023, this question became personal.

I went through heart bypass surgery and a series of health crises.

I remember the fear.

The operating theatre.

The tubes.

The pain.

I survived.

But survival did not remove every problem.

There were medical expenses, medications and work waiting for me. My family still needed a husband and father.

Life was waiting outside the hospital.

So I returned to my family and responsibilities.

But I returned as a different man.

I later came across a long-term study that reported about 17.6 years of life expectancy after a first bypass among that particular group of patients.

I know this is not my personal deadline.

The study involved patients treated many years ago. Medicine has changed, and every patient is different.

My doctors have never told me that I have exactly seventeen and a half years.

It is not a prophecy.

It is not a countdown written by God.

But the number became a frame through which I looked at my life.

What would I do with those years?

What would I want to teach my children?

What conversations should I stop postponing?

What really deserves my energy?

The number may not predict my future, but it reminds me that I do not have unlimited time.

None of us does.

Preparing Because I Love

Thinking about death led me to have one of the hardest conversations of my life.

I sat down with my wife.

I told her that, if possible, I would like to donate my organs.

I would also like to donate my body for medical education, to become a silent mentor to future doctors.

Even when I can no longer speak, perhaps my body can still teach.

We discussed how I would want to be cared for if I became seriously ill.

When should my family continue fighting?

When might they need to let me go?

No husband enjoys explaining to his wife how she should handle his death.

But I did not want her to make those decisions alone, frightened and unsure of what I wanted. Because she went through this all alone when I was put under the trial of fire and steel. I pray that I live longer than my wife, so that she will not need to make these tough decisions and bear the emotional weight again.

I prepared my will.

I arranged my funeral.

I even bought my own funeral package.

Some people plan their next holiday.

I planned my funeral.

It may sound dark, but for me, it was part of being a husband and father.

I have spent much of my life trying to provide and protect.

Preparing for my death was another form of protecting my family.

It allowed me to say:

“When that day comes, you do not need to guess. I have told you what I want. You have my permission to let me go.”

I prepared for death because I love them.

I still hope for more meals, conversations, laughter and ordinary days with my wife and children.

Preparation gives clarity, but it cannot give me control.

A will cannot defeat death.

A funeral package cannot tell me when death will come.

My security must come from somewhere deeper.

My life belongs to Christ.

My death belongs to Christ.

And when the time comes, I will still belong to Christ.

What the Remaining Time Is For

Once I had prepared for death, I had to ask another question.

How do I want to live?

Before surgery, I had large ambitions.

I wanted to earn millions of ringgit, own a large house and perhaps drive a sports car.

I wanted the visible signs that told other people:

“Alan has succeeded.”

These things are no longer high on my list.

I still want more money in my bank account.

Let me be honest about that.

Money pays for medication, education and food. It gives a family options when something goes wrong.

I still work hard because I want my family to enjoy a better quality of life.

But money now has a clearer purpose.

What I have is entrusted to me.

I am responsible for how I earn it, how I use it and what it does to my family.

I want my children to begin from stronger ground.

I do not want to remove every struggle from their lives. Life will provide enough struggle.

I want to give them judgement, capability, dependable relationships and faith that can hold them when their own strength is gone.

I want them to receive opportunities and understand responsibility.

Love prepares.

Love protects.

Love tells the truth.

Love tries to leave the next generation on stronger ground.

This is one reason I recently pursued my master’s degree in Integrated Marketing Communication at USM.

It was a dream I had carried for some time.

After surgery, I could have said:

“I am too old. My body has been through too much. Let the dream go.”

Instead, I enrolled.

It has not been easy.

There are assignments, deadlines, group discussions and research papers.

Sometimes I look at the work and ask:

“Why did I do this to myself?”

But I know why.

I wanted to fulfil a dream and keep learning.

I also wanted my children to see that their father became sick, but he did not stop living.

One day, when they are tired or afraid, perhaps they will say:

“My father went back to university after heart bypass surgery. Maybe I can take one more step.”

That would be enough.

Knowing that life is limited has not made me stop building.

It has made me more careful about what I build.

Life Has Been Kind to Me

Recently, Ming Yan told me that her best friend during secondary school had undergone heart bypass surgery.

But he did not survive.

I did.

Why?

I do not know.

I cannot say that I had more faith or that I was more deserving.

I cannot explain why one family received their loved one back while another family had to say goodbye.

Some questions do not have answers that fit neatly into a devotion or blog post.

I only know that today, I am still alive.

I can still work.

I can still study.

I can still provide for my family.

I can still sit beside my wife and speak to my children.

I can still write these words.

From this point of view, life has been very kind to me.

More accurately, God has been gracious to me.

His grace does not mean that I was spared from pain.

I still have scars, medication, expenses and uncertainty.

God’s love is not proven by a life without suffering.

The cross tells us that.

Jesus entered suffering.

He faced pain and death.

Then He rose.

The resurrection tells me that death is real, but it does not have the final word.

My hope rests in Jesus Christ.

The Older Person I Hope to Become

Being alive today is grace.

But more time brings another question:

What is this time for?

In my present season, the answer includes work, medical expenses, my master’s degree and raising my children.

My responsibilities are still very active.

I am not retired yet.

I cannot pretend that I fully understand what that season feels like. Those who are already there know things I have not experienced.

But I do think about the kind of older person I hope to become.

If God grants me more years, I hope He also grants me greater capability and capacity.

I hope for the capacity to listen without rushing.

To forgive without keeping score.

To protect family unity through honest conversations.

I hope for the capability to use experience wisely.

To guide without controlling.

To steward resources with discipline.

To create opportunities for others.

I hope to remain grounded in love, faithful in stewardship, honest in my actions and generous with my time, wisdom and resources.

Growing older does not automatically make us wise.

Years give us experience.

Character determines what we do with it.

Psalm 92 says that the righteous still bear fruit in old age.

The fruit may change.

It may be a prayer for a grandchild.

Mentoring someone younger.

Repairing a relationship.

Sharing a story of God’s faithfulness before it disappears with us.

We do not bear fruit to prove that we are valuable.

Our value comes from God, who knows and loves us.

I do not want my later years to become only a period of waiting.

Waiting for the next medical appointment.

Waiting for my children to visit.

Waiting for life to become smaller.

I hope I will still be curious.

Still learning.

Still willing to serve within whatever strength God gives me.

I do not merely want to grow older.

I hope to grow more capable of loving well.

Our seasons may be different, but the question is the same:

What has God entrusted to me now?

What can love still do through me in this season?

In the Lord

Even our best contribution may one day be forgotten.

The prayer, the lesson and the family story may disappear with time.

So why does it still matter?

Paul gives us the Christian answer.

Ecclesiastes asks:

“What does man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the sun?”

Under the sun, everything passes.

Our bodies weaken.

Our possessions go to someone else.

Our names disappear from memory.

But the Christian story does not end under the sun.

After writing about the resurrection of Jesus Christ, Paul says in 1 Corinthians 15:58:

“In the Lord your labour is not in vain.”

I cannot make myself permanent.

But Christ has entered death and risen from it.

Because He lives, the love I offer to Him is not empty.

The care I give my family is not empty.

The prayers whispered in old age are not empty.

The forgiveness offered after many years is not empty.

The time given to serve another person is not empty.

People may forget.

Christ does not.

Three hundred years from now, nobody may remember me.

That is all right.

God has not asked me to become unforgettable.

He has asked me to be faithful.

Faithful as a husband and father.

Faithful with my work, relationships and resources.

Faithful with the time that remains.

I do not know whether I have another seventeen and a half years.

It may be more.

It may be less.

But I know that I am alive today.

Today, I can love.

Today, I can learn.

Today, I can forgive.

Today, I can provide and protect.

Today, I can serve.

Today is enough to begin.

What Will I Do With the Time That Remains?

I do not want to think only about how many years I may have left.

I want to think about the time God has placed in my hands today.

Who still needs my love?

What conversation have I been postponing?

Is there someone I need to forgive?

What has God entrusted to me that I can pass on?

If my strength becomes limited, what quiet fruit can I still offer?

Three hundred years from now, we may all be forgotten by this world.

But we are known by Christ.

We are loved by Christ.

And because Christ lives, our labour in Him is not in vain.

A Short Prayer

Lord Jesus,

Teach us to number our days.

Help us love our families well, repair what can still be repaired and use what You have entrusted to us.

Help us bear fruit in every season and remain faithful until our work is done.

Our hope is in You.

Amen.