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Good morning. A few days ago I got an email from a friend. ‘I’ve got cancer,’ it said. ‘It’s in the pancreas. They’re going to try to give me chemo- and radiotherapy and then operate. But I know I haven’t got long. Please pray for me.’ It’s the kind of news that leaves you choking with horror, dazed in disbelief. Yesterday a study from the Barts Cancer Institute said there was some hope a new test could help diagnose this kind of cancer sooner. Currently by the time people realise they have pancreatic cancer the malignancy’s often spread to other organs and the prospects for survival beyond five years are very bleak. It could be good news for some. But it’s no consolation for my friend. His cancer’s past the point of no return. He’s asked me to pray for him. Of course he has. I’m a priest. If priests don’t pray, what on earth’s the use of them? But what do I pray? There’s two conventional ways. The first is to plead with God for a miracle. Whether through brilliant doctors, an inexplicable halt in the tumour’s growth, or through the cancer just evaporating – it’s an impulse, whether we call ourselves believers or not, to will God into bringing life from the dead, resurrection from despair. The other way is to seek acceptance. Whether a courageous attempt at dignified and Stoic resignation or a faith-shaped conviction that Jesus is with us, this is a prayer that my friend be given strength and patience to last him through the frightening, perhaps painful, and certainly distressing last months of his life. I can’t find it in me to plead for a miracle; but I want to pray for more than acceptance. So right now I’m offering a third kind of prayer. It says if this can’t be happy, make it beautiful. It says make this season a time when my friend finds a depth of love, companionship and truth he’s never known before. As he stares down the intimidating frown of death, give him a richer sense of the wonder of living, a joyful thankfulness for what he’s seen and known, an ability to bless others as they face daunting challenges themselves, and a piercing insight into the heart of God. The word for this is transfiguration. My friend hasn’t got long. The truth is, none of us have really got all that long. My prayer is that over these days and weeks he discovers what his real nature and destiny are, so that when his last day comes, we gather round him and say not only, ‘That was tragedy,’ but also, ‘That was glory.’