A Slap in the Face

The sky was sky blue, and the cottony clouds had a hint of gray on their broad bottoms. I was out riding my bike again on the Swamp Rabbit Trail, continuing to try to recover physically from the brutal trauma my R-CHOP chemotherapy had imposed on my body as I was treated for my diffuse large B-cell lymphoma (DLBCL). There are a few sports in which I was able to achieve mediocrity and fewer yet that I was good at. I’m not much of an athlete. But I do love riding my bike.

Two years ago, in July of 2023, I was struggling as I rode my road bike on the Trail. I had ridden road bikes for over 51 years, but age was making it more difficult to swing my leg over the top tube. Of course, the loss of flexibility in my lower back as a result of the reconstructive back surgery I had after I broke my back in 2011 was a major factor. Crouched down with my hands in the drop handlebars, I wasn’t as aware of my surroundings as I used to be, and in that position, it was harder for me to maintain my balance. I suddenly realized that it wasn’t a good idea to ride my road bike anymore, and that I should sell it and move on. It was an emotional moment, and it was like a slap in the face, awakening me to another level of understanding about the realities of health that many older people face. 

Shortly thereafter, as I realized that a new bike was forthcoming, I felt considerably better. After doing a little digging online, I found what I call “an old guy bike” and bought one at a dealer in Greenville. It’s an example of what’s called a low-step or step-through bike. When I was little, we would have called it a girls’ bike instead.

Riding along smoothly and quietly and in a fairly upright seating posture, I felt pretty good. The temperature was in the upper 70’s and the humidity wasn’t too bad. I was about eight miles through a ride that was about 10.5 miles, a distance that has become typical for me.

A large hickory leaf, golden yellow in color, fell from the sky, slapped me on my right cheek, and perched on my right shoulder. It was as if the leaf said, “Don’t you realize that today is the first day of fall, Buddy?” I brushed off the leaf, but not the reminder. Today, September 22, 2025, is the first day of fall. Yes, more and more leaves are falling, leading up to a cascade that will dump large volumes of brown leaves from red and white oak trees onto our driveway. The barrage of acorns is coming, too, and I’m reminded how happy I am that I bought a cordless, rechargeable, electric leaf blower five years ago. But I do love the fall. Oh yes, this was a good slap in the face.

Oh, that they were all so good. It was a slap in the face when the emergency room doctor told me in December of 2024 that I had another lymphoma. A cancerous lymph node had infiltrated my sigmoid colon, which was now perforated. The next day Mark, a general surgeon, told me that I had two choices. “You can go home, we’ll make you comfortable, and you’ll die of sepsis. Or, you can have this surgery, and you might not survive it.” So, I took the latter. I was walking into the valley of the shadow of death. Mark cut a 10-inch vertical incision in my abdomen, stapled my rectum shut, and stuck the end of the remainder of my colon through a hole he cut in my abdomen. I’ve lived with a colostomy bag ever since.

And then Saeeda, my oncologist, told me that this cancer, my second cancer, was aggressive and needed treatment as soon as possible. Another slap in the face. Reality is not an easy thing. Oh yes, the chemo was brutal and traumatic, and four months after my last treatment I’m still suffering from some of the 62 chemo side effects I counted.

As I thought about the possibility of dying, I asked myself some questions. Will I be able to influence my grandson? Don’t my children and their families need me? Have I done enough to prepare Carla to live without me? Am I going to die?

If you want to hear how I worked through these questions, then listen to the testimony that God compelled me to give in April, still during my treatments, but during a time when He gave me a brief physical reprieve. A little bit of my testimony was cut off during editing, but you can see most of it here: Brian Vogt Testimony.

A Burial by the Swamp Rabbit Trail

I pulled my truck into a small parking lot just across the street from Mountain View Memorial Park, a cemetery next to The Swamp Rabbit Trail a few miles from our house. When we moved to Travelers Rest, SC, in December of 2004, it was still a very sleepy little town where one of the main attractions was Sunrift Adventures, a store that sells and rents kayaks, canoes, bicycles, and other stuff meant to be enjoyed in the widespread beauty of upstate SC. Years prior I had ridden my bike out this way from Greenville numerous times, and I had to be very careful when crossing the railroad tracks that crossed Geer Highway near Sunrift. Not because of the trains, mind you, since there weren’t any, but because I didn’t want my wheels to get stuck in the slots beside the rails. And yes, that did happen once. Since then, a rails-to-trails project has converted that part of a railroad line into a nicely paved, occasionally policed, safe and beautiful trail for people wanting to walk, run, or ride bikes. I love The Swamp Rabbit Trail, and I’ve used it quite a bit for bike riding. It’s nice to have a place to ride where I don’t almost get killed by a driver that is more attentive to their phone than to their driving.

As I went to unload my bike from the carrier on the back of the truck, I saw three U.S. Air Force personnel in dress uniforms waiting next to a freshly dug grave under a very small tent, just big enough to cover the grave with a little room to spare. Clearly, they were getting ready for the interment of a military veteran. I gave little more thought to it as I unloaded my bike and began riding on the trail.

About three quarters of the way through my ride, a really, really, really old guy (about my age) rode past me on the trail with music blaring. I’m glad he passed me and kept on going. The music wasn’t offensive, but I thought it was poorly written. I thought how irritating it would have been to have to listen to it for the rest of my ride. I don’t know if I’ve ever before listened to music while riding, but today I decided I would. I instructed Siri to play Mozart’s Requiem from my music library. What a beautiful piece to ride to! It was fun when the cadence of my pedaling matched the tempo of the music, and there’s more than a little irony in listening to an ode for the dead when you’re getting tired while riding a bike up a hill. Of course, I don’t know if anybody found the Requiem to be irritating.

I pulled my bike up to the truck to load it back onto the carrier. I looked up and saw that the interment was complete. The hearse and family limousine were the only vehicles there, and they drove off as I secured my bike in place. There was only one person left up on the hill now, a cemetery employee in an orange shirt and tan pants. He was under that tiny tent detailing the dirt, and was tamping it down with his boots, working in the same cemetery where someday Carla and I will be interred.

The Requiem continued to play as I drove home, and my thoughts matched the pace of the music. I’m thankful that God has gifted me with spiritual sight, for it is the only way that I can see that there is more to life than what I can see with my physical eyes.

The Glacier Cowboy

We passed each other high on Mt. Brown in Glacier National Park just after I left the snow, with me descending and him ascending. He had dark brown hair with eyes to match, and a very thin, perfectly manicured handlebar moustache, clearly held in place with moustache wax. His white cowboy hat was woven, and he wore a carefully pressed blue/yellow/white plaid long-sleeve cowboy shirt. It looked like fairly thin material to me. I didn’t think to look, but I bet it had pearly white buttons. His blue jeans were neat, and he wore brown leather Oxford dress shoes. It was the shoes that got me. No coat, no backpack, no bottles of water, no hiking poles, no umbrella, although he was carrying a small book or pad of some sort in his right hand. I greeted him; he smiled and nodded his head to acknowledge me as he walked by. I say that he walked by, but glided would be more accurate: he moved past me smoothly in his clean brown leather Oxford dress shoes.

It had been a brutal climb for me, and tough for Carla, too, even though she’s the better athlete. AllTrails says that it “is not a hike for the faint of heart” and “is only recommended for very experienced adventurers.” We certainly aren’t faint of heart, but we are equally not experienced adventurers. The maximum altitude of about 7,500 feet was affecting us. My phone app told me that we hiked 9.9 miles (total round trip) and ascended a total of 4,358 feet, and that I burned an estimated 5,175 Calories. We headed for the historic Mt. Brown Lookout tower, but we stopped a little short when the snow got so deep that it became apparent that we might hurt ourselves. It was slippery, too: I found a place where a mountain goat had slipped on the snow and slid before anchoring itself, leaving a clear hoof print behind. When the mountain goats are slipping, it’s time to turn around.

Speaking of mountain goats, it was on this hike that we met Greta, which was the name Carla gave to her. Greta took quite a liking to us. She followed me up the trail and then stopped when I did. When I started hiking, so did she. I let her pass me (she came within eight feet of me), and after passing Carla she started leading us up the trail. When we stopped, so did she. When we started, so did she. It was delightful.

A pressing need to go to the bathroom motivated Carla to descend faster than I did. While still fairly high on the mountain, I could see and hear a storm moving in, with the dark clouds moving over the Rockies toward me from the north. I encountered an optimistic young couple, both wearing shorts, no hiking gear, no backpacks, and they had no water. As I approached them he asked, “How far is it to the top?” “I’ve been descending an hour and twenty minutes,” I replied. “Oh,” he said, “that’s not so bad!” Ah, the optimism born of inexperience. She was clearly much less enamored with the climb than he, and she asked me, “Was it worth the climb?” “Absolutely, it’s beautiful up there, and there are mountain goats. But the storm is blowing in.” He cheerfully continued the climb, and she followed him. 10-15 minutes later I felt the first drop of rain.

I paused, took off my gear, got my green poncho out of my backpack, and got rigged back up. My concern was that I not get my camera or cell phone all wet and that I wouldn’t get cold from the rain. After all, it’s called Glacier National Park for a reason. I looked like the hunchback of Notre Dame with my backpack and hat on my back under my poncho. With the hood on my head, I lumbered down the mountain, leaning on my hiking poles as it rained at a moderate pace. About 10 minutes later I came around a corner and surprised a mountain goat. His eyes opened wide when he saw me in my weird garb, and he decided to clear out at a brisk pace.

My left knee began to ache, and my feet started to hurt. I only had about two more miles to go. I was wearing very good hiking shoes, and leaning on the poles saved my bacon, but I was in trouble. I just couldn’t move quickly anymore. I got down to the last 1.6 miles of trail where it flattened out, and I was going extremely slowly. I was shuffling along at an agonizingly slow pace: It’s safe to say that I was baby stepping.  Apparently my bug spray had worn off, because I was being swarmed by mosquitoes. I kept my poncho on with the hood wrapped around my head, and on one of many short breaks I saw a mosquito trying to drill through the plastic to get to me. He failed. I chuckled.

With about a mile to go, I again encountered the Glacier cowboy. He looked relaxed and wasn’t even sweating. He smoothly moved by me in his brown leather Oxford dress shoes. We didn’t speak, but as he passed me, he gave me a very careful look, as if he were evaluating my condition, and then he moved on.

I can’t help but think about what the Psalmist said:

“For He will give His angels charge concerning you,”

To guard you in all your ways.”

Psalm 91:11

I’m also reminded of Hebrews 13:2:

“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers,”

for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it.”

So, some people encounter angels without knowing it.

Carla saw him exit the trail, still crisply dressed, still not breaking a sweat, but still gliding along. He simply scuffed a little dirt off the bottom of his brown leather Oxford dress shoes as he crossed the road toward the parking lot, before walking out of her view. I never saw that young couple again, nor did we hear any bad news about them. Maybe he was their guardian angel, too.

 

Ruins and Easter

When you think of Petra, you most likely think about Al-Khazneh, which is the most famous part of the ancient city of Petra in southern Jordan. Al-Khazneh makes an appearance in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade as the temple containing the holy grail. I’m fascinated by the grand structures and artwork found at many archaeological sites. Major Roman ruins, which are scattered over many areas of Europe, the Middle East, and northern Africa, are particularly appealing to me. Ruins left from Greek, Etruscan, Egyptian, Inca, Mayan, and other civilizations demonstrate the amazing ability of humans to create intricate structures that are glorious because of their beauty and the engineering prowess they portray. Persepolis makes me want to visit Iran. Pergamon and others draw me to Turkey. There are so many that I can’t list them all. Recently I’ve been enjoying watching a series named Secrets of Archaeology, and I highly recommend it. Of course, some things can be seen in museums, like the Ishtar Gate of Babylon and the reconstructed Pergamon Altar, both of which can be seen at the Pergamon Museum in Berlin. The British Museum houses wonderful things like the Rosetta Stone, the Elgin Marbles (some of the original sculptures of the Parthenon), and artifacts from Egypt and Assyria. Carla and I were unusually blessed to have been able to visit the British Museum and see these things when we were unexpectedly able to take a trip to London and Scotland in 2016. It was amazing.

It saddens me when I see the destruction of archaeological sites. The remains are mere shadows, and I long to have seen them in their glory. I was deeply grieved when a terrorist organization destroyed significant parts of Palmyra in Syria. Digging deeper, however, shows that one of the things that they destroyed was the Temple of Bel. The title Bel was given to various pagan gods to signify that they were masters, or lords.

God has a very dim view of pagan gods. So much so, in fact, that He told His people Israel to destroy their temples and warned them against worshipping them. Here’s an example:

“You shall tear down their altars and”

smash their sacred pillars and”

burn their Asherim with fire, and you shall”

cut down the engraved images of their gods and”

obliterate their name from that place.”

Deuteronomy 12:3 (NASB)

Asherim refers to either a Phoenician goddess, images of that goddess, or a grove that was considered to be holy by those that set aside the place for worship of the goddess. In the NASB, there are places in Exodus, Deuteronomy, II Kings, II Chronicles, Hosea, and Micah that specifically identify pillars as things that should be destroyed or that were destroyed. The terrorists used explosives to partially destroy the Temple of Bel, and a resident of Palmyra reported, "It is total destruction. The bricks and columns are on the ground.'' What did God think of this? Clearly, from the verses referred to above, He was pleased that remnants of the worship of fakes fabricated by people to be deities were destroyed. Well now, if I want to think like God—and I do—then I’d better be careful about what in archaeological sites I let sadden me. There’s a bigger issue at stake than my personal comfort.

We’re much too sophisticated in our Christianity to be taken in by such pagan trickery, but don’t we fall prey to the more mundane sins? Things like envy, covetousness, jealousy, anger, impatience, lust, narcissism, theft, lying, and so forth are condemned throughout scripture. God tells us, just as He did the nation of Israel, to be different from those that do not know Him:

“As obedient children, do not be conformed to”

the former lusts which were yours in your ignorance,”

but like the Holy One who called you,”

be holy yourselves in all of your behavior;”

because it is written,”

‘YOU SHALL BE HOLY, FOR I AM HOLY.’”

I Peter 1:14-16 (NASB)

In my almost 64 years of life, I have proven to myself empirically that I cannot simply make up my mind to be holy and have it be so. God has proven to me that I cannot do that. The thing about holiness is that it is a pre-requisite to seeing God:

“Follow peace with all men, and holiness,”

without which no man shall see the Lord.”

Hebrews 12:14 (KJV)

We are left with one way, and only one way:

“Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life,”

No one comes to the Father except through me.’”

John 14:6 (ESV)

He is risen! Hallelujah!

A Brief Lesson in Bubbles

Copious quantities of rain had fallen rapidly, creating a small mound of foam that slowly traveled down our back yard. Dutifully protecting his people from the dangerous threat, Max stood bravely outside in the rain, barking at the foam with all his might. It was an inspiring sight.

Max is still a puppy, albeit a big one at 63 pounds, and he has yet to experience many things. He didn’t understand the foam and reacted instinctively to what he perceived as a threat. Sometimes we are not so different.

Immediately after I was first diagnosed with cancer, I reacted in fear (see Facing the Unknown). I spent considerable time talking to the Lord about this, and He gave me peace.

 “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight.”

In all thy ways acknowledge him, and He shall direct thy paths.”

Proverbs 3:5 (RSV), 6 (KJV)

Tonight I took a bath in our whirlpool tub. Guessing that Max might want to see what was going on, I left the door cracked open a little. As soon as the water started pouring, he rushed to the bathroom and examined the tub. He cocked his head back and forth, his ears up and his brow furrowed in a kind of cuteness that only dogs exhibit. He was interested by the growing pool of water and the faucet handles. He was startled when I turned the jets on, and he moved back a few feet. As I reassured him that everything was OK, he came a little closer, right until I put a couple drops of body wash in and the bubbles started forming. As the foam grew, he stood back. Max didn’t bark though, because I was in the midst and reassured him that everything was OK. I held some bubbles in my hand, he eyed them, and then approached warily. He touched them with his nose, and then licked them off. He backed off, but then came over and touched them again. He relaxed some, and toward the end of my bath I held some bubbles out to him and he licked them. Sometimes we are not so different.

The Hug

It was a cold, damp, gloomy day. She sat in a pew in the funeral home with some of her friends and one of her professors. Her mother had died unexpectedly, and now she was in a position where she had to carry a lot more of the load at home. I walked down the aisle on the right, and when she saw me, she stood up, walked over, and we embraced. It was a long, tight hug, one you wish you never have to give to one of your students. We talked for a while, still locked in our hug, and then we went and sat down. What do you say to someone at a time like this? Sometimes nothing.

 “…Weep with them that weep.”

Romans 12:15 (ASV)

A hug is a means of communicating love to and unity with another person. They say that it boosts the level of the hormone oxytocin, and they say that helps us connect emotionally with someone else. It’s also claimed that hugging increases the level of the neurotransmitter dopamine in our brain, and as a result hugging helps relieve stress and tension. This is all good and well, but it’s rather technical. When you really, really need a hug and you get a genuine one, you know it’s helpful.

Our ability to encourage a struggling person grows when we struggle. God trains us with comfort in our affliction so that we can transfer our comfort to others.

 “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,

the Father of mercies and God of all comfort,

who comforts us in all our affliction,

so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction,

with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”

II Corinthians 1:3-4 (ESV)

Do you want to be able to comfort others? Ask God to teach you to do so. And then fasten your seatbelt.

It was a much nicer day. I walked into the first floor of the Howell Memorial Science Building in the morning, heading toward my office. As I passed the stairs that lead to the second floor, I heard the rapid pitter-patter of feet coming down. There she was again. “Dr. Vogt! Dr. Vogt! Dr. Vogt! I just found out–I got into medical school! You’re the first person I’ve told!” We met on the first floor, and again we hugged, this time out of joy.

“Rejoice with them that rejoice; weep with them that weep.”

Romans 12:15 (ASV)

Sometimes the other side of the coin is glorious.

And Then She Stopped Breathing

During the summer in the Science Building there are a few students working on research projects and some faculty members working on various things. Overall, it’s pretty relaxed, and it’s great to be able to slow down and focus on different activities. On a very rare occasion I even bring our dog, Lexi, as I did on Wednesday this week.

When we arrived, Lexi was greeted by Jersey, who is Jess’s helper dog. After the usual canine preliminaries, we walked elsewhere in the building. Amy, one of my colleagues, came to my office to ask some questions about academic program assessment. As we looked at the screen on my laptop, Amy suddenly pointed out that Lexi had done both number one and number two on the carpet. I immediately went into embarrassed dog-owner mode, stooped down, and started cleaning it up. When I wanted Lexi to move a little, I found that she was completely flaccid and unresponsive. Her face was squished up against the door, and so I swiveled her toward the hall a little. At some point I saw her doing some shallow breathing, and then she became completely still. Amy felt a very faint pulse, but that was it. As I realized that Lexi was leaving us, I also realized that I that I had only one option left: CPR. I leaned down and started doing a few chest compressions and, shortly after I gave up, she started breathing again. I was pretty shaken up by this, and Amy pointed out that Lexi needed to go to the vet immediately.

She weighs roughly 62 pounds, and I picked her up and walked rapidly but carefully out of the building. Derrick went with me to make sure that I could get her into the truck. Lexi was still fairly flaccid, and I was concerned that I might hurt her by carrying her, but I had no choice. I placed her into the passenger seat and pulled out of the parking garage, telling myself to be careful as I drove. Thankfully the light at the front of campus was green when I got there, and I pulled onto Wade Hampton Boulevard, heading toward Ambassador Animal Hospital. The big V8 in the pickup growled as I pushed the accelerator as hard as I thought I should. I pulled into the parking lot, carried Lexi in, and told the receptionist, “I think she’s having a medical emergency.”

Nineteen years earlier, in a different pickup, the big V8 roared as I drove the roughly five miles from our house to Dad’s house in Taylors. He had called me complaining about his heart racing, and also told me that he was hot and red. I told him to call 911 immediately and to then lie down and rest until I arrived. As I did with Lexi, I went as fast as I thought I could. The EMTs didn’t arrive until about 15 minutes after I did. Several days later, at the age of 82, Dad had both a heart valve replacement and a triple bypass (at the same time). As I looked down into his face on the gurney, I told him that I loved him. My mother had died of complications due to bypass surgery five years earlier. As they wheeled Dad down the hall and I stood there alone, I fought back tears, convinced that I would never see him again. Thankfully, with a great deal of help, he did recover. He never did drive again, but the Lord gave him nine more years of life. He died in his bed in our house.

“We’re going to the second room on the left,” she said. They then opened the door to the treatment room across the hall, and we placed Lexi in there so that the vet could attend to her. The door closed, and I sat alone across the hall, still shaken up by the prospect that we might lose her.

A few minutes later, a very large, nicely groomed black poodle walked down the hall, completely unattended. She looked at me, then at the door to the treatment room, and then back at me. She came over and gave me a greeting (a brief closer look), and then turned around and disappeared. I wonder what she was thinking. A little while later the door to the treatment room cracked open, and I could see Lexi standing there. I felt some sense of relief but was still concerned.

We just don’t know when our time will come. When we’re young, we feel like we have a very long life in front of us, but time seems to go faster when we get older. With increasing clarity, we recognize the truth:

“Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow.

You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.”

James 4:14 (NASB)

When we exhale on a cold day, we see the water vapor in our breath condense in the air. And then it’s gone. So, too, our lives.

A while later the vet came into the room. The x-rays on the tablet computer very clearly showed that Lexi had pulmonary edema (fluid collected in her lungs) and an enlarged and somewhat misshapen heart. Lexi has heart failure (aka congestive heart failure). We don’t know her exact age because we rescued her. Based on her very gray face, she’s now an elderly boxer, and she’s probably somewhere around 10. She’s getting a diuretic (furosemide) to remove fluid from her lungs – this is the same diuretic that people often take when they have heart failure. When it arrives, she’ll also be getting a pet-specific drug to help her heart. Today is Saturday, and this morning her energy level was up. With some help, we hope that she’ll live for at least a couple more years. Like people, though, her days are numbered.