Why Am I Still Alive When Heaven Is Far Better?

The doctors tell me my tumors are stable. For now, I am not in pain. That is God’s mercy. But even so, the question won’t leave me:

Why am I still alive when so many I love have already gone home to be with Christ?

I asked this same question when I survived COVID. I was on a ventilator for 21 days and in the hospital for nearly a month. That entire month is virtually gone from my memory. I could do nothing for myself. I had to be taught to walk again, to regain strength, to begin life over in the smallest of steps. Many did not survive that same battle. Yet somehow, I did. And again the question rose in my heart:

Why am I still here, Lord? Why did You spare me?

It hit me especially hard later with the brutal murder of Charlie Kirk at only 31. He was killed for his traditional Christian values and for expressing his convictions openly in public. So young, so full of promise, yet hated for his faith. Then came the loss of Voddie Baucham at only 56, a man of such strength and influence, his voice for the gospel now silent here but alive in eternity.

And then there are my dearest friends. Paul Forsyth was not only my best friend but also a pastor, faithfully shepherding God’s people. I still listen and wonder when the phone will ring, forgetting for a moment that it never will on this side of heaven. Randy Stirewalt became another best friend in recent years, a church-planting missionary to Kenya whose faith and encouragement lifted me more than I can say. Don Rice was a missionary and later a pastor, steady and faithful in the work of God. And Lemar White was a member of my church, always so expressive in his love, never ashamed to show it, always making those around him feel seen and cherished.

I miss them. I feel their absence keenly. And I find myself asking,

Why them and not me? Why am I alive when heaven is far better, and when men I loved more than I can express have already gone ahead?

Paul asked the same question two thousand years ago in a Roman prison:

“For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain. But if I live in the flesh, this is the fruit of my labour: yet what I shall choose I wot not. For I am in a strait betwixt two, having a desire to depart, and to be with Christ; which is far better: nevertheless to abide in the flesh is more needful for you” Philippians 1:21–24.

Paul longed for heaven, but he also knew his remaining was not an accident. And that’s where I find my hope, too.

Paul did not downplay it. He said death is gain. He called being with Christ “far better.” He described death as a departure, striking the tent after a long journey, loosening the ship’s ropes, and setting sail for home.

When I think of Paul Forsyth, the pastor, Randy Stirewalt, the missionary church planter, Don Rice, the missionary and pastor, Lemar White, the faithful church member, when I think of Charlie, who gave his life standing for truth, and Voddie, who preached with boldness until the Lord called him home, I miss them terribly. But I do not grieve without hope. They are home. Their race is finished. Their joy is complete.

That longing I feel to join them is not despair. It is faith. It is homesickness for Christ and for the fellowship we will share again in His presence.

And yet Paul adds the word “Nevertheless.” As much as he longed to go, he knew it was “more needful” for others that he remain.

That is true for me and for you. Our lives are not accidents. Our times are in God’s hands. Not one of us will leave this world one second early or late.

Charlie’s murder was not outside of God’s control. Voddie’s passing at 56 was not premature in God’s eyes. The homegoing of Paul, Randy, Don, and Lemar was not random or meaningless. Their purposes were complete.

And if I am still here, it means my purpose is not. God has chosen for me to remain because someone still needs to see Christ in me. Not my strength, not my achievements, but Christ Himself showing His love through my weakness, my words, my prayers, my presence.

Paul’s great secret was this: “For to me to live is Christ.” Life was not about usefulness or productivity, but about Christ living His life through him.

That truth steadies me when I wonder why I am still here. I am not alive to prove myself useful. I am alive because Christ delights to live His life in me and through me. Even when I am frail, He is not. Even when my days feel quiet, His life in me still speaks.

And this is all grace. I did not survive COVID because of my faithfulness. I am not alive because of anything I have done. I am here because Christ is faithful, because He holds my life, because He has chosen to show Himself in me for a bit longer.

This was true of my friends, too. Paul the pastor, Randy the missionary, Don the missionary and pastor, Lemar the faithful member, each revealed Christ in their own way. Now they shine brighter in His presence. And while I remain, my only calling is to rest in Him and let His life shine through me.

But here is where many stumble. In grief, in disappointment, in suffering, bitterness can creep in. Some live out their days rehearsing wrongs, clinging to unforgiveness, letting anger sour their spirits.

That was never God’s plan.

Bitterness robs joy. Unforgiveness chains the soul. You can outlive many and still die defeated if you refuse to forgive.

But grace offers freedom. Christ has forgiven us fully, and He invites us to forgive others, to release the debts we carry, and to rest in His sovereignty. My friends who have gone home would want me to live free, not bound. And Christ wants the same for you.

We cannot control what happens to us. None of us chose cancer, chronic pain, childlessness, or sudden loss. None of Paul’s family chose to say goodbye when they did. None of Randy’s, Don’s, or Lemar’s loved ones chose to let go so soon.

But we can choose how we live today.

We can choose joy. We can choose gratitude. We can choose to smile when sorrow would rather keep us silent. We can encourage someone else even when our own hearts ache.

Joy doesn’t erase pain. But it keeps pain from erasing our souls.

Stable tumors are a gift. Surviving the ventilator was a gift. Every breath is a gift.

And every day comes with purpose. That purpose may be as quiet as prayer. Maybe it’s a word of encouragement. Perhaps it’s simply showing peace when everyone else is afraid.

God wastes nothing, not our sickness, not our weakness, not even our tears. He turns all of it into fruit for eternity.

Like Paul, we live between two worlds. Our hearts ache for the “far better” of heaven, and for the fellowship of friends like Paul Forsyth, Randy Stirewalt, Don Rice, and Lemar White. But our hands remain open for the “more needful” of today.

We don’t have to choose. God already has. He knows when our race will be finished. Until then, He sustains us, not because of our strength but because of His grace.

So live with honesty. Long for Christ without shame. Rest in His life within you. Forgive freely. Choose joy. And remember, you are alive not because you are proving anything, but because Christ delights to reveal Himself through you.

Cancer will not have the last word. Neither will the brutal murder of Charlie Kirk, nor the death of a preacher at 56, nor the graves of my dearest friends.

Christ has the final word.

One day soon, the tent will be folded, the ropes loosed, and we will set sail for the harbor of His presence. That will not be a loss. It will be a gain. Joy without tears. Peace without pain. Home at last.

And on that day, Paul the pastor, Randy the missionary church planter, Don the missionary and pastor, Lemar the faithful member, along with Charlie, Voddie, and countless others, will be there to welcome us. The phone that no longer rings here will ring again in heaven, not with a call from earth, but with voices full of joy as we embrace and worship Christ together.

But until that day, I am alive for a reason. You are alive for a reason. Not because we are strong, not because we are useful, but because Christ lives in us. Not because the world demands us, but because God delights to magnify His Son through us.

So take courage. Your life is not wasted. Your days are not meaningless. You are alive on purpose. And when the Lord finally calls you home, it will be far better than anything you have ever known here.