A Small Cup of Light: a drink in the desert

By Ben T. Palpant

The book that J.I. Packer called, "Haunting, deeply pondered, and beautifully written," is changing lives. A Small Cup of Light is the story of an unexpected encounter with God in the desert of despair. Several years ago, Ben Palpant suffered a sudden and massive health collapse that crippled many of his faculties nearly overnight. That experience

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mud&Spit Enterprises
• Release date: Nov 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9780996038911

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

My Unmaking

"I have a feeling that my boat

has struck, down there in the depths,

against a great thing."

Juan Ramon Jimenez, from Oceans

I used to think there were only two ways to meet my Maker: a blow to the head or a free ride on Elijah’s flaming chariot. Either I would kick the bucket or experience a miraculous quantum transport–that simple. Two months after my thirty-third birthday, I discovered another way to encounter God: the agony of affliction.

That afternoon I woke from a nap with my brain on fire, like hot coals pressed in the grey matter. The vicious pain induced me to crawl outside and burrow my head into a wind-swept snow bank just to stay alive. My four-year-old son found me. He stood, stocky and objectively curious, as is his way, observing my strange new behavior.

Get Mom, I whispered.

I wanted someone to reach inside my brain and lift out the coals. My wife was the closest help, but that’s not why I sent my son away. The truth is that I did not want my little boy to see me in such a pathetic and vulnerable state. Despite all the pain, I cared only to save face, to dispel the imprint of my frailty on my son’s psyche.

A phone call dispelled the fear of an aneurysm, and my wife cooled the heat in my head, calming me down enough so that I slept, though fitfully. I woke in the middle of the night with my brain racing. My mind leapt from one disconnected idea to another with growing appetite, absent was any sign of the lingering thickness and throb that usually followed migraine headaches. It felt like my mind sat in front of a screen that flashed thirty bizarre images every second but could not keep up with them.

The speed exhilarated and terrified me. I tried to move my arm, but my too busy mind could not send the command. Only with great force of will could I move my body, every movement in slow motion. It took me nearly an hour to henpeck an email to my boss informing him that I could not go to work the next day. I wrote only two short sentences.

Three days later, I sluggishly returned to my work as a teacher. I pretended like everything was back to normal, but it wasn’t. Termites were eating at my house of confidence which finally collapsed one week later.

I was working through The Imitation of Christ with my students one morning when it happened. Reading aloud a chapter as they followed along, I suddenly saw a word that I did not understand. I kept reading, but one minute later I read another unintelligible word. Thirty seconds later, another. This time the word was short, an everyday word that I knew I should comprehend. Twenty seconds, another one. Ten seconds, yet another. And then my eyes scanned not just words, but sentences that I could not understand. Those sentences formed entire paragraphs that were lost on me. I felt the house falling around me and panicked inside.

I stopped reading, quietly asked a student to continue, and left the room. I did not know what was happening and I did not know what to do, but I knew I wanted no one to witness it. So I staggered toward the locker rooms, feeling the strength slowly seep from not only my mind, but also my arms and legs.

Fortunately, a colleague saw me and asked if I was alright. I lied, of course, and tried to throw him off the scent, but he knew me too well and followed at a distance. When I found a chair and started weeping in fear, he turned the corner and pulled up a chair in front of me.

What’s happening, Ben? he asked quietly.

I don’t know, I said. I’m confused.

He laid his hands on me and prayed for me on the spot before getting help. I’ve wondered since why he chose to pray before getting help, but I’m thankful that he did. His prayer slowed my panic. A few minutes later, my boss drove me home.

The road home climbed through the hills and leveled out amongst farmland, now blanketed by snow. I pressed my face against the window to rest and stare at the passing frozen landscape. We talked some, most of which I don’t remember, but I remember that he encouraged me not to worry. My classes would be covered, and I could take my time. Fatigue set in quickly and I had no strength to worry. He helped me into the house where I collapsed on the couch.

When I awoke, many hours later, shadows filled the room. My wife had left to pick up the kids from their various afternoon activities, and I should have been alone in the house, but I wasn’t. I felt someone in the room with me. When I stirred, he spoke.

Hello, Son. My father’s voice was a quiet comfort.

Hello, Dad.

We sat quietly while my mind crawled back one week to January 10th, the day before my mind had caught fire. That Saturday, we were celebrating one of my children’s birthdays. Dad had pulled up a chair and asked, How are you, Son?

I’m tired, I admitted. You know, we got home last night at 1:00 a.m. but the basketball team won the big game in overtime. We’re still undefeated. And my work at church is pretty busy, but going well.

How’s school? he asked.

Teaching is teaching, a lot of hard work, but classes are good over all. I can’t complain.

And the kids?

Well, parenting’s a blast. They keep us hopping.

How are you sleeping?

Unprepared for this question, I blurted out, Honestly, I don’t sleep great. I’m usually tired, but I can sometimes snag a few minutes of sleep during lunch break. I sneak into my truck and doze. But, you know, sleep is overrated. I can sleep when I’m dead.

He chuckled, sort of. Son, I don’t like the pace you’re living and I’m afraid it might catch up to you. Your body needs sleep. God made it that way. I’ve seen the ill-effects of sleeplessness in my hospital patients and I’ve experienced them myself. I appreciate all the good things you’re doing, but you might want to slow down just a bit.

He was genuinely concerned, as father and physician, and I tried to be genuine in response. Alright, Dad, I’ll try. But I had no intention of trying. I brushed him off.

The next day I buried my head in the snow. And here he was, a week later, sitting in the darkness with me. Quiet. No condemnation. Just loud enough to let me know that he was there. The thought crossed my mind that he should be treating patients at the hospital, since he was a physician, and not sitting with me.

Why are you here? I whispered.

Oh, I left the hospital early as soon as I heard. Thought I’d check on you.

He didn’t stay long. I had no physical strength and mental fatigue prevented conversation, but he didn’t see any cause for panic. He offered names of medical specialists whom I should visit in case the confusion continued, gave me a hug, and encouraged me not to worry.

Not worry? That’s what my boss had said, too. But I felt plenty worried.

I did not improve. Over the next week week I visited specialists and took their prescriptions. The neurologist made me stand on one foot and tap my head, dancing to the halting beat of the checklist on his clipboard. Apparently I danced well enough to require no further tests, no clicking machines. After all the M.D.’s and Ph.D’s had cleared me without a definitive diagnosis, I visited the guy who was a last gasp, a guy reputed to stick closer to the earth.

He asked me if I had spit at any point in my life. I told him that, yes, sometimes I hocked a good one to see if I could hit a tree in mid-stride from ten feet. In fact, if I could boast for a moment...

You might reconsider such, shall we say, activities.

What does spitting have to do with my fatigue and confusion?

Well, I’m not sure, but I know that every time a human person spits, he loses a part of him that will not return.

I felt a deep urge to tell him the situation could be more dire

Reviews for A Small Cup of Light

[ludiegrace · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book is not primarily a theodicy, an attempt to explain how a good God permits suffering, but an exploration of the way suffering prompts us to examine our own hearts in the presence of a perfectly loving and all-powerful God; to learn, however painfully, to acknowledge our frailty and lean on the all-sufficiency of Christ. This accent on God's sovereignty is something that not every reader is going to be able to swallow, but it is worth going on this journey with Ben Palpant and wrestling with it.

I don't recommend reading this book in public if you're at all given to tears.