Deo Volente (D.V.), tr. "God Willing"
My father was ordained a deacon in the conservative Mennonite church when I was six. So, most of my growing-up years involved church attendance—essentially every service held at the church, we were there. Sunday morning, Sunday evening, Wednesday evening, all-day meetings. Sunday service started at 9 AM; we usually arrived at the church by or before 8:30. Our family summer vacation was a Bible conference in Manheim, Pennsylvania. That’s really the only time I remember my Dad taking off work. Otherwise, he left every morning before 6:30 for the 5-minute drive to Valley Quarries where he began at 7:00. He used that extra time to greet his co-workers, do a pre-trip truck inspection, and be well ready for the day ahead of his shift.
What strikes me about this routine was how all of it was couched in the oft-repeated phrase, “Lord willing.” This was based on the passage from James:
13Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go into such and such a town and spend a year there and trade and make a profit”— 14yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes. 15Instead you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that.” (James 4, ESV)
This passage goes on to say that if we don’t live with this mindset, we participate in arrogant boasting, which is evil. I was accustomed to ministers announcing the next service with the words, “Lord willing.” In fact, the initials "D.V.” were often printed on program announcements. I don’t recall anyone ever voicing Deo Volente, but we all knew that “D.V.” meant Lord (or most accurately God) willing.
A number of years ago I started to use this phrase frequently with my patients as I wrap up a visit and tell them I’ll see them in six months or a year. Because I am keenly aware that one or both of us may not be here next time. That could happen either by death or by the return of our Lord in the Second Coming. I am humbled by the fact that I can give someone a great report (the proverbial “clean bill of health”) and they collapse on their way out the door. I remember a Reader’s Digest “Laughter, the Best Medicine” column decades ago of a patient who collapsed in the entry while leaving his appointment. The nurse reported this to the doctor who told the nurse to turn him around as if he was heading into the office!
But in all seriousness, this simple phrase reminds me of several things.
I am not in control. God is. All events proceed under His divine sovereignty and superintendence. I can do nothing to interfere with that plan.
Life is short. It is, in fact, the mist or vapour described in this passage. I am staring 55 in the face a month from now. It reminds me to live this day—which could be my last—in the light of eternity.
God may have other plans. My neighbor for the first 24 years of my life, just 11 months older than me, was recently killed in a farming harvest accident. It stopped us all in our tracks to take account of our own lives and realize that the plans God has for us may not be our own.
I must look up. In the midst of what is sometimes called The Olivet Discourse, Jesus told his disciples, “Now when these things begin to take place, straighten up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near” (Luke 21:28, ESV). While there are prophetic references in this Discourse, we know that our redemption is one day nearer than it was yesterday. And that keeps me looking up. Not inward, which too often results in selfish introspection. Not down, which often results in depression. But up. Because that’s what Jesus told us to do. And because Psalm 121 tells us that our help is found when we lift our eyes up to the hills (v. 1).
I don’t need to tell you about all the distractions in this world which by design keep our eyes downward. I don’t need to remind you of the “wars and rumors of wars.” I don’t need to mention the grotesque evil which surrounds us on every side.
But I do need to remind you to live each day in limbo! The ancient Celts and later Christians talked about “thin places.” The ancient Druids apparently believed that the distance between heaven and earth was three feet. Thin places are those mystical moments or experiences which feel closer than that. LuAnne and I will never forget hearing Dr. Richard Swenson speak at a Christian Medical Association conference in 2003 about the thin veil which separates us from this life and the next. Some days, it feels like one can reach your hand out and nearly touch the space on the other side of the veil! If memory serves me, he used this tunnel of trees in Halnaker, West Sussex, England to illustrate.
All of life is gift. And if God grants me another day, Lord willing, I pray I will live tomorrow for His honor and glory. And if today is my last and I am transported to the other side of that thin veil, then the “beatific vision” of gazing into the face of my Lord and Saviour will at last be a reality! Either way, it will be…
D.V., Deo Volente!
Dr. Yeager’s reflections on goodness, truth, and beauty and their impact on life, medicine, and theology; what it means to live as male and female reflections of the imago Dei (Genesis 1:27); not intended as individual medical advice.