The other day I went to visit my five-month-old grandson, Silas, at daycare. His daycare is just a skip and a hop from the building where I work, so I take advantage of the opportunity to pop in fairly often. Usually the older children are bouncing around playing, and they flock around me to report what they’ve done that day. This time, though, the mood was noticeably more subdued.

“Miss Amanda” was taking the group out to the playground, but three of the preschoolers remained inside. “Miss Pearl” seated herself in a chair and gathered them on the floor around her like little chicks. These three tots were being kept indoors because of misbehavior. Miss Pearl wanted to be sure each one knew why he or she was not getting to play with the others. She asked the wee wrongdoers what they had done amiss.

One little boy piped up and declared in a nice, clear voice that he had been talking too loudly. Miss Pearl agreed, and reminded him that despite the fact that he’d been repeatedly asked to use his “inside voice,” he had continued to be much too loud. The little girl had done something intentional (I missed just what) that resulted in tearing up her shoe. “I don’t think it can be fixed,” Miss Pearl lamented, adding, “Your mommy’s not going to be happy about this.” I know mommy, and I was 100 percent sure Miss Pearl was right about that. I never did catch what the last little malefactor had done, but he also accurately confessed to his crime.

And there, in the midst of this daycare decadence, sat Silas. Propped up in an infant seat, he gazed about the room wide-eyed, as if wondering what on earth he had done to warrant being kept indoors with this unruly crowd. And in those tranquil blue eyes I glimpsed it.

Innocence.

Silas has not yet sinned. His pudgy feet have never led him where he should not go. His dimpled hands have never grasped a weapon. His mind doesn’t fathom peek-a-boo, much less how to take revenge on an enemy. His mouth still offers coos, not curses.

He is innocent — but only for now. You see, he is innocent simply because he’s too young to be otherwise. Only give him a little time, and he will join the rest of the human race.

In Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert tells of attending a “baby ceremony” in Bali. In that culture, she explains, babies are considered gods until they are six months old. As such, they are never allowed to touch the ground. Then at six months there is an elaborate ceremony culminating in the infant being held and lowered so her tiny feet can touch the dust of the earth for the very first time. She is now one of us.

I told my son-in-law about my daycare experience. Later I recalled the scene and found it amusing that our sweet little Silas appeared to be “numbered among the transgressors.” That thought led me to the One who was truly innocent, yet was numbered among the transgressors (Isaiah 53:12), even accepting our punishment to the highest degree.

When does it happen, exactly? Each of us had a moment, so long ago it will be always unremembered, when we first made the decision to willfully disobey. It may have been as simple as talking too loudly or ruining a shoe, but we knew it was wrong and we did it anyway. At what point does God begin to hold us accountable? I’m sure we could argue about that all day, but in the end we would agree that He does hold us to account. I hope we would also agree that there is only one remedy, and his name is “Jesus.”

Satisfied that the children knew the error of their ways and had been adequately reformed for the moment, Miss Pearl let them join their fellows on the playground. Silas smiled up at me in a toothless grin. Though today he is incapable of iniquity, soon enough the seed of original sin will begin to bud. He will bear the fruit of his humanity with a shouted, “No!” and the age of innocence will vanish. I, for one, will hate to see it go.

Publisher’s note: Today marks one year since the death of Michael Spencer. Michael was the founder of the Internet Monk, but more than that, he was the husband of Denise and the father of Clay and Noel. This is a remembrance of Michael’s life and passion by Denise. We ask that you pray for Denise at this time, the one year anniversary of her husband’s death.

In cleaning out the shed recently, I came across an old suitcase. Inside the suitcase were several items from long past, including this photo of Michael (on the right) and his boyhood friend, Jeff (no, not Dunn). Their common passion was playing Daniel Boone, and they are depicted here in all their imaginative glory. You might think, by virtue of the fact that Michael’s wearing the hat, that he was the leader. Ah, sadly, no. Michael complained into his middle-aged years that Jeff always had to be Daniel Boone. Michael, it seems, was relegated to the part of “Yadkin,” I believe it was. It seems that Yadkin was Daniel’s sidekick…or second cousin thrice removed…or something. Whoever Yadkin was, he wasn’t “Dan’l,” and Michael always felt a bit cheated.

Yet play they did, in their coonskin caps and buckskin jackets, armed with long rifles and powderhorns. The old neighborhood became the wilderness in their fantasies, and they took on any danger that came their way. It was high adventure, to hear Michael tell it.

“Adventurous” is most likely not a word that would jump to mind if you knew Michael, but in his heart of hearts he was. He followed the space program and watched the news coverage of rocket launches, space walks and shuttle landings. He also loved all those make-believe space adventures: Star Trek, Star Wars and other star-spun stories. It makes sense, doesn’t it? “Space: the final frontier,” began the Star Trek episodes. Outer space was the perfect playground for a grown-up “Booner” of days gone by.

In real life, however, Michael generally played it safe. He had almost drowned at age 12, and wouldn’t go near a swimming pool because of it. Once or twice when he served as a youth minister he went spelunking with some teenage guys, but that was about the extent of his grownup quests. He didn’t go rock climbing or skydiving or any such thing. Instead, Michael’s adult adventures were of the intellectual variety. He explored religion and philosophy, doctrines and ideas. He was an avid reader, and his choices were seldom fiction.

I don’t know much about Daniel Boone, but the man did a lot of different things. He was both a trailblazer and a settler. He fought Native Americans, yet was adopted by the Shawnee. He served in the Virginia General Assembly, and later became a surveyor and merchant. Did he have a restless spirit? I’d bet “yes,” at least somewhat.

Michael, too, was a man of many interests. He kept that early love of history through the years. He enjoyed a wide variety of music. He watched all sorts of movies. If you knew him at all, then you know he loved baseball and food, including baseball food.

Was he restless? I’d say “yes,” at least somewhat. Michael was given to different phases, fads and hobbies, and the kids and I often got caught up in them as well. Perhaps the most memorable was The Wrestling Phase. I don’t even know how it started, but “Mankind,” “Edge,” “Triple H” and “The Rock” became household names. We watched these guys faithfully every Monday night. We invited friends over for “Wrestlemania” pay-per-views. I halfway thought my husband had lost his mind, but hey! It was fun, and great bonding time with the kids. Eventually The Wrestling Phase ended as mysteriously as it began and Michael found something else to occupy his recreational time.

He was also a man who was not afraid to question his beliefs and to occasionally change his political or doctrinal position, again usually taking me along for the ride. I sometimes complained that he stayed in a phase just long enough to win me over before switching loyalties. About the time Michael turned me into a Democrat he began listening to Rush Limbaugh. When I at last followed him into Calvinism he started finding fault with some of those doctrines. And so it went. At least he kept life interesting.

Throughout his entire adult life, though, Michael had one gift that never changed. He loved to preach and was an extremely gifted preacher. Very closely related were his gifts of writing and teaching. But it was his love for preaching that burned in his heart. Michael had grown up under the preaching of his uncle, Rev. W. O. Spencer, whom he greatly looked up to. Saved at age 15, Michael was called to preach at age 17. At least that’s how he interpreted the call. Today he would more likely feel called to the ministry in a broader sense. But back then in that Southern Baptist culture, a fellow called to the ministry was “called to preach.” Pastors weren’t called “Pastor So-And-So,” but “Preacher.” So young preacher-boy Michael set off to blaze his trail as a pastor, little knowing that God had something different in mind.

That something different was youth ministry. Michael was great with teenagers, and they loved him. Yet his frustration grew as years rolled on and instead of pastoring, God led him from one youth ministry position to another. Finally he pastored one church before being called to become a campus minister. At last he had a ministry that seemed tailor-made just for him. He could preach to his heart’s content, and his primary audience was young people.

I will tell you a secret. At times Michael struggled with the concept of success. Remember Yadkin? Grownup Michael still wanted to be Daniel Boone. He sometimes looked at pastors of big city churches driving luxury cars and wearing suits and wondered where he’d missed the boat. I hated it when those feelings overtook him, because I could see what a huge success he was in the Kingdom — in God’s Kingdom, and success by God’s standards. For some reason the Lord kept us in humble circumstances while always meeting our needs.

Though Michael loved his opportunity to preach and teach and touch the lives of teens, it wasn’t too long before that restlessness set in again, coupled with the desire to preach to adults. Several stints as interim pastor brought him a level of satisfaction, but still he longed for more. So Michael began to write. That’s where most of you enter the picture. You knew and loved him as the Internet Monk. Thank you for being his audience, his online congregation. He needed you, you needed him and it was a good match.

As I have slowly gone through Michael’s belongings I have repeatedly found little folded pieces of paper in books and pockets. Only occasionally might one be a grocery list. They are almost always jottings of sermon notes or lesson plans. Preaching, teaching and communicating about God — these are the gifts that most defined Michael. He seldom went anywhere without one of his beloved Moleskines® and a pen. The ideas were always flowing, and he needed to put them to paper when they surfaced.

Sometimes I stand alone holding one of those crumpled notes and ask God, “Why? This was his life! All he wanted to do was tell people about You! So why couldn’t he stay here longer?” It is ironic that Michael died just when he was, perhaps, about to finally move up the ladder of success. A highly popular web site, his first book nearly in print…maybe he could at last play the part of Daniel. But like Yadkin, it seemed Michael could only rise so high.

And he has now set out on the greatest exploit of his life. For once, I cannot follow. Sometimes I want to search for him, and it seems he should be close by. Is he right over yonder mountain? Or maybe just past that bright star?

One thing I’m sure of: Michael has crossed the final frontier. And this adventure will last forever.

Editor’s Note: One of the things that makes the Internet Monk such a strong community is our desire to be real at all times. Sometimes that reality takes us to painful places. Denise Day Spencer, the wife of the late founder of Internet Monk, Michael Spencer, relates her experience with her husband’s death. Be forewarned: This is not an easy read. There are graphic details of a dying person’s last days. But we will not yield from our attempt to be real. After all, Jesus only deals in reality.

By Denise Day Spencer

I’ve been reading and hearing lots of death stories since Michael passed away. I’ll share a few anonymous examples.

First, one that I heard long ago but will never forget. “Jim” was dying of cancer at home and had been in a coma for days. One evening he regained consciousness. His wife was thrilled. She called the two adult daughters, who arrived with their young families. Wife, daughters and grandkids all piled up together on Jim’s bed. For a couple of hours they enjoyed a joyous time of holding one another, saying “I love you” and sharing their goodbyes. Finally Jim’s eyes closed. He sank back into a coma and died later that night. But the family will be forever grateful for that gift of precious time they were given.

Then there was “Sam.” Also dying of cancer and unresponsive, Sam suddenly opened his eyes wide and focused his gaze on a spot near the ceiling with an expression of wonder just before passing on. His daughter was there and later said to me, “I don’t know if Daddy saw Jesus or an angel, but I know he saw something.”

Another man I heard of took the guesswork out of it. Before he died he said “Jesus” three times. His wife takes comfort in her belief that “Matt” was ready to go and is now with his Lord.

“Jesse” was another man who had been unconscious as his wife watched his condition deteriorate. She at last whispered to him that she didn’t want him to suffer any more, and she told him to “run to Jesus.” He opened one eye and smiled before dying shortly thereafter.

“Dana” never opened her eyes, but before she passed she managed to reach up to touch her beloved husband’s face one last time as she had so tenderly done often before.

These are beautiful stories, one and all. Tales of hope in the midst of tragedy. Memories that bring consolation to the bereaved. And I’m getting tired of hearing them. Can I say that out loud? “Why?!” you no doubt gasp in horror. ‘Cause Michael and me, we got nuthin’.

Michael’s illness was just plain hard. I’m not complaining; it could have been a thousand times worse and I know that. Yet from the day he got sick in late November until he died on April 5, he never again had even one good day. His life became throwing up in a bucket or trying to sit perfectly still so he wouldn’t throw up. My life became driving him to medical appointments in the dead of winter through rain and sleet and snow and fog and sometimes all of the above. I’ll condense the story for your reading enjoyment. Michael got worse. Life got harder. Then he died.

As hard as his illness had been, I secretly harbored a hope that there would be some kind of tiny payback at the moment of his death. Perhaps he would see Jesus or an angel (or the Virgin Mary?). Maybe there would be some sign of his readiness, some indication of peace and joy as he passed into the next life.

But just as cancer had treated Michael harshly, death showed him no kindness. The disease had been relentless. No remission, no respite for either of us. Likewise, there was no beauty in his passing, even for a fleeting moment. Death was ugly and it claimed him unceremoniously. He struggled to breathe, and fought harder as the day wore on. After the hospice nurse administered morphine it seemed to take forever for him to grow calmer. The breaths still came in labored gasps, his jaw dropping at an odd angle. His eyes were half open but unseeing. At some point I noticed that his lips were blue and I dared to lift the sheet. His entire body was mottled as his circulatory system slowly gave out. I touched his face. I held his hand. The family gathered around. We watched as the raspy gulps of air became shallower…and slowed…and stopped.

Where were the visions? The angels? The heavenly music soundtrack? Michael fought a hard fight and he died a hard death. And that was that.

I’m not at all embarrassed to say that I was angry at God. Not only was my 53-year-old husband much too young to die in my humble opinion, but he was a Christian. Not only that, but he was a minister who had given his whole life to sharing the gospel. Not only that, but HE WAS THE INTERNET MONK , for crying out loud! Lord, are you listening?! Was it too much to ask that there be something — anything! — lovely in his death? I wanted that for him, and I wanted it for me.

Four days later I went to the funeral  home to pick up Michael’s cremains. I drove home with the box labeled, “Warning. Contains human remains” on the floorboard of the passenger side. That night I transferred the box’s contents to the lovely wooden urn I had purchased from the brothers at St. Meinrad. Have you ever seen human cremains? I was surprised at how heavy the box was when I first picked it up. People say “ashes,” but it’s more like gravel, really, or perhaps a mixture of fine gravel and sand. The cancer had so ravaged Michael’s body that I pictured him simply crumbling into this small mound of rubble.

Then I had a thought. I wish I could say I heard a loud voice in the room or a gentle whisper in my ear. But it was just a thought, a memory. “He is not here.” Well, of course not. Michael was faith and doubt, joy and anger, wonder and intelligence and fear and giftedness and insecurity and love and so, so many more things. How could all that possibly be contained in a plastic bag of  “human remains?”

That was when I remembered the second part of the verse. “He is not here. He has risen as he said…” (1)

In that moment I realized that the hardness of Michael’s death was a reminder that it is not supposed to be this way. Ever read the first three chapters of Genesis? Man was created for life, not death. But we live in a fallen world, and the cherubim still guard the tree of life with white-hot swords. Our only hope is a Redeemer who has conquered death itself and has risen as he said. He will deliver us to a new world, a world where “there shall be no more curse,” for “…on either side of the river [is] the tree of life…” (2)

In those first days and weeks after Michael left me, all I seemed to be able to recall of him was his grueling illness and his grim death. Little by little, memories of his life are returning. I want to remember him vibrantly alive, teaching and preaching and writing and podcasting. Talking and laughing and eating and studying. But whenever my thoughts turn to the starkness of his passing, I will remember: We may be born to die, but we were created to live.

Live well, Michael. Live now and forever.

(1) Matthew 28:6

(2) Revelation 22:3a & 2b

[This post was originally published on Denise's blog. You can read it here.]

I have, in the past few months, become enamored with the idea of praying at various times during the day–not because I want to be more pious than the next person, but because I need it.

And so Michael recently presented me with a book: The Divine Hours Pocket Edition…on the condition that I would review it. Sounds like a good deal to me! I’m not the one in the family who usually does book reviews, but here goes.

I have not used Phyllis Tickle’s The Divine Hours. Upon reading her “Introduction to This Manual,” however, I quickly saw that the Pocket Edition is just that–a drastically condensed version of The Divine Hours that a person can easily keep in a suitcase or purse when traveling, or on other occasions when it would be too difficult to take along a complete book. She makes it clear that “no pocket edition is an entirely satisfactory substitute for a complete breviary or prayer manual, nor is it intended to be.”

The Divine Hours Pocket Edition is, like its greater companion, a guide to “fixed-hour prayer.” You may have also called it “observing the hours” or “keeping the offices.” There are seven offices in each 24-hour day. Tickle is quick to explain that it’s a rare lay Christian who can or would want to observe all seven, so she recommends selecting the hours that best fit in with an individual’s schedule and lifestyle. (In other words, no guilt trips necessary if you don’t feel like praying at 3:00 a.m. That’s a relief!)

The Pocket Edition contains basically one week’s worth of prayers. Because the book is designed to be used at any time of the year, in the back there is a bonus: “Traditional, Seasonal and Occasional Prayers.” Traditional prayers are intended as extra selections if the reader wants to include one or more as a part of a particular petition or prayer of thanks. Seasonal prayers make the Pocket Edition more flexible by including readings for Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany; Lent, Holy Week and Easter; Ascension; Pentecost; All Saints Day and Thanksgiving. Occasional prayers are just that–prayers for special occasions. Examples are readings for weddings, illness, birth and death.

Tickle’s text comes mainly from the Book of Common Prayer and the writings of the Church Fathers. It includes the words of St. Ambrose, Fanny J. Crosby, St. Augustine, and William Cowper, just to name a few.

The Divine Hours Pocket Edition is very straightforward and easy to use. That’s one of the reasons that when we take a four-day trip later this week, it’s going with me. Thank you, Ms. Tickle and Oxford University Press.

The web site with The Divine Hours for each day is a great place to get a look at what these wonderful books hold in store for you.

Before the introduction, the book cites Psalm 119:164: “Seven times each day I praise you for the justice of your decrees.” I don’t know if I’ll ever work up to all seven, but The Divine Hours Pocket Edition has inspired me to make a stab at a beginning.