Instead of offering a tidy, simplistic answer to this complicated query, I’m quick to admit that I live in a lot of mystery; there’s so much that I don’t understand. But what I do know is the only thing I need to know: the God who allows suffering in our lives is the God who became like us so He could suffer with and for us. He isn’t distant or indifferent to our pain. On the contrary, He experienced our pain in all its fulness so that one day He can destroy it forever.

In fact, smack dab in the middle of a terminal diagnosis, I’ve become increasingly convinced that God hates to see His children suffer. “He does not willingly afflict the sons of men” (Lam. 3:33) but is “a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, and relenting from disaster” (Jonah 4:2).

A gracious God, merciful, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love, relenting from disaster…

Ironically, those words were one man’s bitter complaint against God. The Israelite prophet Jonah resented God for forgiving the worst people on the planet (and the Israelites’ fiercest enemy), the Assyrians of Nineveh. God’s mercy was disturbing to Jonah, offensive to the point that he told God he wanted to die. “I knew you were like this! I knew you would do this!” he bellyached. To the self-righteous man, God’s kindness felt like terrible injustice.

Yet God was not being unjust. In forgiving the Assyrians, He wasn’t making light of their wickedness, nor was He overlooking the atrocities they’d committed against His people. Instead, He looked to the day when He would bear the Assyrians’ atrocities in His own body so that justice could be fully served—and really bad people could experience His extravagant goodness. (And religious hypocrites like Jonah could also be forgiven and experience His goodness.)

I tread gently here, because I don’t want to be reductionistic or trivialize any wrong or suffering. This topic is too much for this limited space and my simple brain. It deserves kind, wise, and safe dialogues; compassionate and listening ears; and the willingness to sit with each other in the grief.

And I haven’t even touched on the hardest stuff: What about children who are sexually abused? Human trafficking? Genocide? Slavery? We could go on and on, right? This is complex and touches on the tenderest places of our hearts…

Since I’m in over my head, let me make this less global and more personal:

I’m back on chemo again.

Again.

It’s a new drug as I stopped tolerating the old one. I’m on a drastically reduced dose and it’s still wreaking havoc on my body. There are no words for the weariness and the misery and the midnight wrestling—

I can’t do this anymore. But I can’t not do this…
My body can’t handle this anymore. But my body can’t handle the alternative either…

And this long journey would harden my heart if it weren’t for this: The God who continues to entrust this suffering to me is the God who…

was despised and rejected by men,
a man of suffering who knew what sickness was…
He himself bore our sicknesses,
and he carried our pains…
he was pierced because of our rebellion,
crushed because of our iniquities;
punishment for our peace was on him,
and we are healed by his wounds. (Isaiah 53:4-5)

Jesus bore in his body not only my sin but also the effects of living in a world under the curse of sin—including sickness and disease, loss and grief. And because He already carried this cancer—and ultimately defeated it when He busted out of that grave—I can face it with the rock-solid hope that He will heal me, fully and forever.

And because He was the Man of Sorrows who endured immeasurable grief, He can comfort and carry my husband and son—and He’ll carry us all till He welcomes us into that “destiny that reaches beyond this world to a kaleidoscope of wonders, enrichments, and delights” (1).

As Amy Carmichael said,

Sorrow is one of the things that are lent, not given. … Joy is given; sorrow is lent. … It is lent to us for just a little while that we may use it for eternal purposes. Then it will be taken away and everlasting joy will be our Father’s gift to us, and the Lord God will wipe away all tears from off all faces (Isa. 25:8). (2)

This is the God I’ve learned to trust when I don’t understand the terrible things of this life. He’s experienced what I have, what my loved ones have, what every sufferer has—and He has everything we need to face it all with peace and purpose, joy and hope. He doesn’t spare us the pain, but He joins us in it, until that day when He makes all things new.

Knowing this, I can take the question, “Why does God allow good things to happen to bad people?” and turn it on its head, humbly asking instead, “Why would God love bad people (like me) so much, He’d suffer and sacrifice Himself to give them every good thing—forever and ever?”

Jonah faulted God for being full of mercy and love. While he wanted to be on the receiving end of that kindness (see Jonah 2:2-7), he wanted to ban “the bad guys” from it. But here’s the thing about God’s love: it’s always shockingly extravagant. It defies our ideas of what’s just and fair. It sets its affections on the most unlikely people. It transforms the worst things that happen to us into countless gifts that can never be taken from us.

So, I can face another round of chemo this afternoon and all the side effects that follow. Even as my body takes another beating, I can laugh and enjoy my husband and son. I can live fully, looking for God’s many mercies today and laboring at the good works He’s given me to do—not because I’m strong, not because the suffering gets any easier—but because I’m loved by the One whose love is better than life itself (Psalm 63:3), the One who’s giving me more days so I can share that love with others….

Worth it. Oh is it ever worth it.

(1) J.I. Packer, Weakness is the Way, 92-93.

(2) Amy Carmichael, Edges of His Ways, p.230. 

The post Cancer Update 8.23.25 appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

The veil feels extra thin today… like gossamer or tulle. And while I may be living my best 90-year-old life right now (*snort*), it helps to know there’s a reality so much bigger and better than this present one—a fact that makes today deeply meaningful and worth living to the hilt.

I’m sitting in The Chair again—chair number 10, tucked back in the corner of the chemo ward. (Pretty sure this is purposeful… they put the wild ones back here.) Today is my return to Thugtherapy (my name for Trastuzumab, an immunotherapy that spares the hair but otherwise feels like chemo to my body). When I walked in earlier, R., a BSU student who’s my favorite phlebotomist, flashed me the sweetest smile—and Nurse K. looked up and said, “Welcome back!” after my 17-month hiatus. One of the acupuncturists just finished giving me a 30-minute treatment, which makes such a difference. (I’m so grateful the medical community is slowly embracing and integrating holistic resources!) My nurses and clinicians are lovely and kind and just the right amount of sassy. I adore these people. 

~ ~ ~

The woman in the chair next to me has a thin spike of hair (far more than several women in the waiting room had—they wore caps and beanies on their billiard-bald heads). A cheesy rendition of “I keep holding on” is playing a little too loud over tinny speakers, and if I were independently wealthy, I’d rip out this ugly old, patched linoleum and these cheap uncomfortable chairs and remodel this joint with as much warmth and beauty as possible. But more than a desire to remodel, my heart cries out, Jesus, shine your Light and Love into this place, into these hearts. 

~ ~ ~

Due to metastases making headway on my spine, last week I suffered a spinal fracture accompanied by pain that has made every movement and breath…special. As I was making light of it all, Dr. H told me it’s actually considered an emergency (due to the risk of spinal collapse and/or paralysis), so he ordered two MRIs STAT so we can make a new way forward. I’ve asked the Lord to hold my spine together and/or give me extra joy and grace to deal with the worst if it comes—because Lord knows that joy is not my default setting; I’m more prone to cuss and grumble than to laugh at the days to come. 

So can I just stop and say here that if Jesus can work in and through me—self-absorbed and slow-to-learn, proud and petty me—there’s hope for us all. We have such a patient, compassionate, forgiving, faithful Savior. As we keep going to him, and looking at him, and seeking him, he works miracles in our hearts. He gives us more of himself.

~ ~ ~

Despite a marathon of insurance and medical-record debacles, I always get the royal treatment here at St. Luke’s. Dr. H calls me the “OG Gangster VIP,” and he and my nurse bend over backwards to give me the very best care possible. I could not ask for a better medical team and can’t imagine being anywhere else. I’m so grateful. 

~ ~ ~

Back to that thin veil…

I’m convinced that a long goodbye, a slow death, is an unspeakably precious trust from God—a coveted window of time to share his goodness with a captive audience. People are enamored with the death process (albeit, terrified too, if it gets personal). They want to see how someone dies. So, when I talk about the life and joy and hope Jesus has given me in the face of death, most people lock eyes with me and listen. 

Then all this protracted suffering (that can so easily turn me inward and grumpy and wearied into numbness), matters immensely. It’s a continual invitation to engage with eternal souls, to share the Love of my life with incredibly special people who crave hope and joy and meaning in all this world’s madness. My death could be at work for their life. That’s ginormous and glorious and compels me to show up for yet another dreaded appointment or to push through another painful day.

This is why Paul’s words continue to mean so so so much to me:

~ ~ ~

It’s almost time to wrap up here. I got so engrossed in writing this, I momentarily forgot about the loading dose of Thug dripping into my veins, but a wave of acid nausea just hit me, so here we go. I glance again at chair number 9, which now holds a man who must be in his mid to late seventies. He’s sick and weak, with a nagging cough (I call it “the chemo cough”). His wife sits with him and she’s attentive and—burdened. We’re surrounded by so many beautiful eternal souls. God’s image bearers. Hurting people who need to know that Jesus came…

to shine on those who live in darkness
and the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the way of peace.

Luke 1:79

Jesus, give us eyes to see what you see, to share your peace right where you put us, to remember that knowing you is “the best thing in life, bringing more joy, delight and contentment than anything else”*—and the best thing we can give others.

~ ~ ~

Grateful for you, dear friends. Thank you for your messages, especially when you share how I can be praying for you too. It means so much. Everyone has their hard, and—yep, you know what I’m gonna say—suffering’s not a competitive sport. It’s a joy to be on this journey with you and to share each other’s burdens. 

I love you!

Colleen

*J.I. Packer, Knowing God, 33.

The post Cancer update 2.20.25 appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

Sweet friends!

I can’t believe it’s been over four months since my last update when I said, “I hope to write another update soon…” I know my silence has been worrisome, so I do want to be more faithful to communicate. But I’m still finding it hard to put this phase of things into words. As a stop-gap measure, I’m gonna copy-and-paste my July 29 Instagram update below. Strangely enough, right now it’s easier for me to write within the constraints of a word limit like Instagram’s… but I do hope to send a more heartfelt update soon: a sooner-than-four-months-from-now soon.

Also, you know I love hearing how I can pray for you. I’m horrible at replying, but it brings me joy to pray!

With so much love,

~C

P.S. – THANK YOU for so faithfully praying and caring for Eddie and Jeremy. As many of you know, they bear every bit as much as I do on this journey, if not more. (Understandably, most people tend to rally around the cancer patient, while loved ones are left standing quietly on the periphery, a reality that’s broken my heart again and again.) Eddie just graciously agreed to share some of his own journey in my next update, which I’m so excited about. :))) All that to say, thank you for being the kind of people who care about all three of us. That means more to me than I can say.

~ ~ ~

AN UPDATE

••• My March PET scan confirmed cancer spreading in my lymph nodes. The cancer’s been in my ribs, hip, spine, chest wall, and lymph nodes. I’m experiencing increasing pain in three of those sites, which tells me it must be growing, but I won’t know the rate/extent of growth till my next scan. (I try to minimize the frequency of PET scans as the radioactive sugars measurably grow my metastases.)

••• My oncologist is continually amazed by the fact that although I’ve discontinued treatment, the cancer hasn’t killed me yet. He says they should study me. Ha! I just tell him, “I’m convinced God holds my days, and when it’s time for me to go Home, He’ll take me.” I believe that with all my heart.

••• I typically have very little energy each day. (E.g., when I hang out with close friends/family for a couple hours, make it to church, clean the house, etc., it can take a day or more to recover). My doctor’s explanation of my intense fatigue: “Your body is fighting hard!” (And it has been for many years!) Occasionally, God gifts me a week of extra energy, and BOY DO I LIVE IT UP, people. Annnd then I crash again. I have to be picky about how I spend my limited energy—and that’s rough for this people-loving, go-get-‘em girl!!

••• I don’t look like a cancer patient right now. My chia-pet hair is back (again!). I need to gain weight but I’m not chemo-emaciated, which is a win. My ailments are many but silent; even my exhaustion is difficult to detect because when I’m around people, I’m surfing a joy wave.

••• Some days are dark and heavy; some are full of light and laughter. The greatest challenge right now is to endure with joy. Yet joy keeps winning because Jesus is with me, and His love is better than life. I don’t just say that. I mean it with every fiber of my being. That truth has held me fast every step of this way.

••• Last but definitely not least: I’m eternally grateful for you all. Your prayers and encouragement are the greatest gifts to me (and E and J!). Thank you too for sharing your own stories of suffering with me. It means more than I can say. I love praying for you, even if I can’t message back.

The post Cancer Update appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

Surprisingly, it was my integrative doctor who convinced me that my unique diagnosis demanded chemo. She referred me to a top-notch oncology clinic AND a Chinese medicine oncologist. I’m convinced that I survived the rigors of chemo—and that it was so effectual—because I was so well supported by my integrative team!

With my terminal diagnosis two years ago (what a miracle to write that! two years!!), I DREADED (and that’s an understatement) enduring chemo again—not just for 12 rounds this time, but indefinitely. So I resolved to find an alternative cancer clinic instead of spending my final days on the chemo torture rack.

I ended up at a world-class clinic in St. George (10/10 recommend!), but the cancer was spreading like wildfire, and, once again, it was a naturopathic oncologist who convinced me that combining chemo with a rigorous naturopathic protocol would be the most effective means to battle my aggressive cancer.

I’m grateful for both Western and alternative medicine. Alongside chemo, I’ve done everything from Viscum shots to colon hydrotherapy. I’ve had the best doctors in both worlds.

But I’m even more grateful for the work God has done in my heart. I’m no longer “for” or “against” any approach to cancer treatment. I understand why some people swear by chemo and others refuse it. Some people are healed at alternative cancer clinics—others are not. And while I work hard at my health, my ultimate goal is not self-preservation but rather, making the most of the days God has entrusted to me, living and loving fully, whether that’s at an alternative clinic or in a chair in the chemo ward. And when I die, it won’t be because my treatment plan failed—but because my work here is done and Jesus wants me Home!

The post To chemo or not to chemo? appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

Even as I wrote Out of the Shadow World, I prayed it would care not only for Jeremy, but also for other kids who have been touched by cancer, chronic illness, and grief of many other kinds. While I’m not a child therapist nor am I an authority on kids’ suffering, my heart beats big to share the comfort our family has received from God through many years of walking together through various sufferings.** This story is one of the ways I can share that comfort—gently addressing themes of grief and pain and death through adventure, friendship, and a touch of zany humor. What a joy it would be to care for a child in your life who’s suffering right now. I’ve included Chapter One here so you can get a feel for the story. . .

~ ~ ~

CHAPTER ONE: THE CLIMBING TREE

Pax Jackson was a ten-year-old boy who didn’t know if he’d make it to his eleventh birthday. 

He had gray eyes, a bald head where thick curls used to grow, and a little more of his dad’s dark skin than his mom’s fair complexion. He also had a nagging cough that rattled his bony body and kept him up at night. Instead of shoving his homework into his backpack and rushing to catch the bus home from school that afternoon, he sat on the back deck of his family’s log cabin, dangling his feet over the edge and watching a fat lizard do push-ups in the warm sun. With the sound of his own wheezing loud in his ears, he didn’t notice the squeak of the school bus brakes on the street out front. 

Jayni Suko was a petite ten-year-old girl with almond eyes and paper-straight black hair. Stepping off the school bus, she bent forward under the weight of a bulging backpack as she made a detour toward the house next door. She bounded up the driveway of Pax’s home and hurried around to the backyard. 

“Pax!” Jayni ran up the steps of the deck, dropped her backpack, and sat down beside her friend. She studied Pax’s face. “We missed you at school. This a bad day?” 

“Yeah.” A smile peeked out through the dark circles around his eyes. “What’d I miss?” 

“Not much. Miss Halpin gave me your homework but said if you weren’t feeling up to it, don’t worry. She’ll help you catch up later.” 

Jayni pulled two tattered textbooks out of her backpack and a few wrinkled worksheets and plopped them between her and Pax. 

Pax only glanced at his homework, then turned away. 

Jayni followed his gaze out over a sloping hill peppered with pine trees. 

Jayni was the youngest daughter of the Suko family who’d moved next door to the Jacksons almost twelve years ago. The Sukos and Jacksons had become fast friends, and when Pax and Jayni were born two years later, the neighborhood had grown a little louder and a lot more fun.

Jayni looked over at Pax. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, I guess.” Pax’s voice softened. “I’m glad you’re here.” The friends sat in silence. The lizard darted away and disappeared under the deck. Pax took a deep, rattly breath. 

“Do you think you could make it down to the Climbing Tree?” Jayni asked. “I can help you.” 

“’Course I can, Spitfire. And I don’t need any help.” 

Spitfire was Pax’s nickname for Jayni. He’d read it once in a book about dragons and knights, and it seemed to fit his friend who was as fiery and fearless as a dragon. 

Jayni laughed as she hopped up. “I just have to be home by dinner, so we’ve got two hours. Let’s go!” 

Jayni reached down for Pax’s hand, but he pushed it away, eager to prove he was stronger than he looked. 

The two friends descended the deck steps and scampered down a small bank covered in crunchy pine needles. Their footfalls stirred the scent of a thousand Christmas trees into the warm spring air. Pax paused to catch his breath along the way. Ten steps forward, a right at the boulder, a hop across the stream—and there stood the Climbing Tree, like a giant with an oversized head of shaggy hair. 

They’d discovered the enormous oak when they were just six years old, and they’d been returning ever since—to dream up stories, build forts, and talk about important kid stuff, like the proper ratio of ketchup to French fry. Sometimes on the weekends or holidays, they’d pack snacks and books and blankets, and read under the expansive branches till the sun got sleepy. 

This is also where they’d had their biggest fight, the summer they were seven. And where they’d run to take refuge two years ago—on the day Pax got his diagnosis.

Jayni beat Pax to the tree and lifted a thick, drooping branch high so he could pass underneath. But Pax grabbed the branch himself and waited for Jayni to enter first. She shot him a withering look but marched inside anyway. When Pax let go of the branch, it swished and thudded against the ground. Now safely beneath the canopy of branches, the children headed straight to their favorite spots. Pax chose a low broad limb and slung his body over it like a sloth, arms and legs dangling free. 

Jayni scrambled up three limbs above him, leaned back against the trunk, and in a British accent declared, “Behold the Queen of the Climbing Tree! You there, young man, who are you? How dare you enter my royal court without permission!” 

Pax rolled his eyes as a smile played around his mouth. “Your Royal Fakeness, I am King of the Climbing Tree. You have been found out. Guards, seize her!” He paused to cough before commanding, “Off with her head!” 

Jayni’s eyes flashed, and she was about to fire back at Pax when she heard a loud rustling sound above her. 

“What’s that?” she asked, craning her neck to look up into the dark maze of branches. 

“Sounded like a bir—” but before Pax could put the d on “bird,” they heard a peculiar voice say, “Dad-gum it! This tree gets harder to find every time!” 

The complaint was punctuated by a wild flapping and the sound of a bell, like the fire alarm at school. 

Pax forced himself up into a sitting position, and he and Jayni stretched and strained to see who was at the top of their tree. 

The vexed voice spoke again. “Oh, rot and rubbish! These wattles will be the end of me!” 

More flapping disturbed the leaves overhead, another shrill bell sounded, and a few brown feathers floated downward. A disheveled bird popped down through the upper branches and began to hop toward them, circling the trunk branch by branch, as if descending a winding staircase. 

Pax and Jayni froze. Had this bird just been . . . talking? 

He was an odd-looking thing: his bottom half was roost- er-brown, his top half snow white, and every single feather was frizzy and out of place, as if he’d just been struck by lightning. His black eyes bulged and rarely blinked. But his most striking feature was what dangled from the end of his black beak: three, long, rubbery strands that whirled and whipped with his every movement. A leafy twig had become tangled up in one of them, and the bird kept scratching at it with his claws and shaking his head violently, trying to free the thing. 

Down and down he came, muttering all the way, feathers flying. He ran right over Jayni, who sat still as a statue, and right past Pax, then spread his wings and fluttered to the ground. 

“Now where is that blasted thing?” He bent low, cocked his right eye to the ground, muttered again, shuffled through some leaves, clawed at the tangled twig, then pecked at the ground. “Agh! Well, I am up a creek without my cattle!” 

Pax’s and Jayni’s shocked looks changed to amusement. Pax raised an eyebrow and silently mouthed at Jayni, without a paddle? 

Jayni nodded, then bit her lip to keep from laughing. Both children were considering whether to go on in silence or to speak up and reveal themselves, when the bird latched onto a piece of bark with his beak and tugged at it violently. The Climbing Tree quivered and quaked, and—as if a talking bird hadn’t been shocking enough— the trunk miraculously swiveled open, revealing a gaping black hole no bigger than the bird. 

“Oh!” gasped Jayni and Pax at the same time. 

Startled, the frizzy and frazzled bird jerked his head up, sending the tangled twig into a tailspin. On spying the children, his beak opened wide and let loose that awful bell sound. “What! Oh, rot and rubbish. Just my luck. I suppose you both were there the whole time? Saw everything?” 

Pax and Jayni couldn’t find their words yet, but they slowly nodded. 

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s brother. Why do these things always happen to me? Collywobbles! You’ll both have to come with me, I’m afraid. I can’t leave you here now that you’ve seen the doorway.” He stuck out a wing to wave them inside. 

Jayni summoned her power of speech and stammered, “But . . . this is our tree. We’ve come here for years, and . . . it’s never done that before.” 

Pax, who was terrified of tight, dark spaces quickly added, “I’m not going in there.” 

Am I seriously arguing with a talking bird? Pax wondered. Maybe he had fallen asleep on the tree limb, and this was just a strange dream. He’d soon wake up and tell Jayni all about it, and they would laugh together. 

The bird cleared his throat and ruffled his feathers. “I’m sorry, but you absolutely must come with me now. What a mess! We’ll have to see Declan. He’ll know what to do.” 

“You can’t force us to go anywhere!” declared Jayni. 

The whole weird encounter was leaving Pax suddenly drained, so he was relieved that Jayni had spoken up. 

The bird let out a huff and narrowed his bulging eyes. “Young lady, it’s time you faced the musical. The reality is, this is a top-secret tree whose roots lead to great wonders and mysterious places and a healing man, and I can’t just have you two—” 

“A healing man?” interrupted Pax, perking up. 

“Why, yes, of course. Ah, gimcrack! I suppose you haven’t heard of him out here.”

The bird scratched at the tangled twig still dangling from the rubbery beak rope, and he blew his bell again. “Agh! These snag-nabbit wattles!” 

Pax was deep in thought about the healing man as Jayni climbed down from her limb, enchanted by the magical creature. “Where are you from? How did you get here?” But the bird was swinging his head back and forth due to the twig, so Jayni bent forward and reached toward his beak. “May I?” she asked.

He blinked in surprise, and then said, “Well, um, I suppose so. You look as harmless as a glove.”

Jayni giggled. “I think you mean a dove.” She carefully unwrapped the twig from the wattle, which she didn’t at all like touching—it felt like wormy rubber bands. 

“Ahhh. Such sweet relief! Well, thank you, thank you kindly,” crooned the bird. With one claw he stroked all three wattles, then fluffed his feathers and sighed. 

“Where are you from?” Jayni repeated. 

“Mademoiselle, I am a three-wattled bellbird from— ehhh, I’m not sure if I’m allowed to tell you where. But it’s not far from here. Not far at all.” 

Jayni wondered why he couldn’t tell her where he was from, but before she could open her mouth to ask any more questions, the bird was prattling on again. 

“Ah, look at me forgetting my manners. Mother would be so disappointed. My name is Wilmer. How do you do?” The bird attempted a tottering bow. 

Jayni smiled. “How do you do, Wilmer? My name is Jayni, and this,” she said, pointing up into the tree, “is my friend Pax.” 

While Jayni and Wilmer had been chatting, Pax had begun to feel something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. That tiny spark of hope that had been snuffed out by long months of illness, suddenly blazed into a forest fire. Somewhere out there was a healing man, and Pax wanted more than anything else to be healed. 

“Let’s go with him, Jayni,” Pax said suddenly. 

Jayni’s eyes widened as she turned around to stare up at Pax. Pax—her friend who was always exhausted, who didn’t want to do anything more daring than climb the first few limbs of their tree, whose sense of adventure had been lost ever since he got sick two years ago. This was the old Pax talking, and she liked it. 

“Yes! Oh, Pax, let’s do it! Let’s go!” 

“Quite right, then. You’ve finally come to your senses. Off we go,” said Wilmer, turning toward the doorway and muttering. “This is a fine metal of fish, but Declan’ll know what to do.” 

Kettle, thought Pax as he climbed down from his tree limb and stepped toward the black hole. A kettle of fish. He watched cautiously as the frazzled bird hopped through the opening. Then he watched in amazement as the black hole grew larger for Jayni, who stepped in behind Wilmer without hesitating. 

Pax crept up to the very edge of the doorway. Peering in, he felt a blast of damp air hit his face. He could see nothing, but smelled a strong scent of dirt and rain. Pax stood motionless, except for his heart, which beat fast with both hope and fear. A healing man. A healing man, he silently repeated. He closed his eyes, forced his right foot forward, and stepped inside the oak tree. 

(Out of the Shadow World will be released through Moody Publishers on May 2. You can preorder on Amazon or your favorite book outlet.)

**See 2 Corinthians 1:4-5.

The post A story for kids (especially those who are hurting) appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

(This was a brief update I posted on Instagram…)

Okay, I’ve guzzled two cups of organic black decaf low-acid mold-free coffee and am ready to attempt an update. ? I’ll say it again: There’s no vocab for this journey, so I just kind of stab at words and pray they make a wee bit of sense.

I’ve had only one infusion since April—due to my increasing intolerance of treatment + Long Covid + major dental work (chemo bullies teeth!). After months of prayer and anguishing through pros and cons, I decided in late July to end all treatment, at least for the foreseeable future. (When it comes to these decisions, it feels like your options are: “Would you rather jump out of a plane without a parachute or be thrown into the ocean tied to an anchor?” ?) I knew the odds were great that the cancer would take over within months, but I decided to cross that bridge once I came to it.

However, as soon as I made my decision, the cancer made a comeback. I decided to do one more infusion, get a PET scan done, then make a revised decision based on those results.

During the pandemic, I was asked before PET scans, “Did you recently have Covid?”—because Covid can remain in the lymph nodes and look just like cancer. Lo and behold, the “cancer comeback” was in fact Covid’s perfect mimicry. The infection I contracted June 1 not only was acting like cancer but also created a pericardial effusion (fluid in the sac around the heart that can lead to heart failure).

What a rollercoaster this continues to be! I’m shocked and overjoyed that God continues to hold back the cancer in my spine, hips, ribs, chest, and lymph nodes! It’s also a heavy reality to not know what to do next: my body is intolerant of treatment, I’m utterly exhausted, and it’s complicated and even dangerous for me to get sick.

I’m still on my rigorous naturopathic protocol. When my doctor said, “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working!” I laughed and said, “Well, I do rub castor oil on all my metastases.” ? (I omitted detailing my myriad other strange practices. Ha!) But I quickly added, “I absolutely believe God holds my days and his hand is on this cancer, holding it back till it’s time for me to go Home.”

I believe that with all my heart, and in all the complexity and confusion of this journey, that is a solid truth I can rest in. “All my days were written in your book and planned before a single one of them began.” (Ps.139:16)

One of my prayers is that I won’t make too much of terminal cancer—that I’ll be able to communicate the experience without magnifying it. My story is so much more than this suffering. But it’s a tricky balance, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get it right. I do know that there is so much life to be lived today, even within these physical limitations and deep weariness. There are fresh new mercies and undeserved joys wherever I turn. The pic above is one of those joys: two of my besties visited last month. ?

Posting with the prayer that this will encourage some of you in your own hard…

~ ~ ~

August 30

“She smiles a lot. Her zygomat muscles are strong,” my dentist said matter-of-factly to his assistant. I lay there, mouth cranked wide open, as Dr. Jacobsen twisted and wrenched out a second decaying molar (compliments of chemo).

“She must be happy,” his dental assistant chirped in reply.

I nodded and caveman-grunted an affirmative. I am happy. But it’s a costly kind of happiness. I wish my mouth wasn’t out of commission. There’s a story behind this smile . . .

~ ~ ~

Elisabeth Elliot asked,

The past three months have been dark and heavy. I’ve been short on words. God has removed the intimate experience of his presence and let me grope in the darkness, clawing for grace to make it one moment at a time. It’s been physically grueling as well as psychologically exhausting. As long-term treatment’s ever-compounding side effects have demanded more and more of my body, I’ve grappled with the impossible decision, Is it time to end treatment since I’m becoming increasingly intolerant of it? How much more can I take?

(By the way… I have a standup comedy bit for this: “Would you rather jump out of an airplane without a parachute or jump into the deepest ocean with an anchor tied around your neck? How to choose, how to choose…”)

But facial muscles don’t lie. I do smile a lot and laugh almost as often—as many of you well know. (Fun fact: I was teased in elementary school for how much I smiled, and I’ve had many people tell me over the years, “I thought you were fake when I first met you” and “You don’t have to smile all the time.” I just tell them the smile is part of the package deal. Ha!) All that to say, I wish I could communicate my smile and laughter here as I write about these heavy realities. Wish I could talk about death with you, shed a few tears, then crack a corny joke to make you snort (‘cause you know that’s how I roll). Over these summer months I’ve wrestled through countless paragraphs trying to update you all, but every time I’ve ended up thinking, Sheesh. That’s completely depressing. I’ll try again later…

The thing is, cancer is utterly confusing—akin to a rickety old wooden rollercoaster that has so many twists and turns it would require a play-by-play update to make sense of the experience: it’s a slow uphill grind, it’s a fast downhill plunge, it’s blinding sunshine in the face, it’s an impenetrable dark tunnel, it’s an upside-down head rush, it’s a right-side-up scream fest. I truly don’t know how to make sense of this phase of our journey apart from an hourly update (which, helloooo, no one wants).

But where I lack the vocabulary to write well about this present suffering is where I continue to find God’s Word “perfect . . . trustworthy . . . right . . . radiant” (Psalm 19). The language of Scripture is the only sufficient language for suffering. It’s the language that tells the story of Love who went to the cross for us so that our suffering would never be meaningless.

And so I cry out to God using his own words. In recent weeks it’s been Psalm 116:

I love the Lord because he has heard
my appeal for mercy.
Because he has turned his ear to me,
I will call out to him as long as I live.

The ropes of death were wrapped around me,
and the torments of Sheol overcame me;
I encountered trouble and sorrow.
Then I called on the name of the Lord:
“Lord, save me!”

The Lord is gracious and righteous;
our God is compassionate.
The Lord guards the inexperienced;
I was helpless, and he saved me.

As I’ve been meditating on and memorizing and crying out these verses, I’ve also been studying First John. One of John’s recurring themes is “remain in God!” My heart burst to find that the original Greek word here for “remain” (meno) not only means “to stay,” but also, “to continue to be present.” As I meditated on both this and Psalm 116, this was my thought process:

The psalmist knew he would need to call out to God for the rest of his days. In other words, he knew life wasn’t going to get easier… so he would need God to the very end.

God is not sparing me from continued suffering, so I too will need to cry out to him for the rest of my days.

Crying out to God is a way of staying present with him. 

So God is continually letting me suffer to make sure I remain in him (and don’t remain stuck in my self-sufficiency, pride, and independence), which is the best thing God could do for me and for those I get to love for him.

A few of you will remember that when Jeremy was 18 months to six years old, he suffered monthly high fevers, rashes, joint pain, mouth sores, stomach upset, and an acute cough (eventually diagnosed as PFAPA syndrome). He spent hours and days at a time in my arms. All Jeremy could do was cry out in his suffering, and all my mama’s heart knew to do was comfort him in any and every way possible. Although those years often felt traumatic, I marvel at how Jeremy’s suffering allowed him to experience plentiful security and attachment, comfort and love early in life.

In a similar way, I’ve spent so many years crying out to my Father and being held in his arms that I’m deeply persuaded of his love, his comfort, his safety, his goodness, his wisdom, his nearness. And so even on a journey that often feels cruel and grueling, lonely and overwhelming, I’m convinced all over again that God has entrusted to me, and to Eddie and Jeremy, an exquisite gift delivered via terminal diagnosis. I know to the marrow of my soul-bones that “this momentary light affliction is producing for us an absolutely incomparable eternal weight of glory” (2 Corinthians 4:17).

Which is why my zygomat muscles are strong. I can still smile. And laugh. Crack jokes. Not because I’m good at facing death (oh boy, I’m not), not because I’ve got my act together (mercy, if you could hear the things that come flying out of my mouth or see the idols I often turn to in my pain)—but because my Father is holding me tight and filling me with his love and joy and hope and purpose.

~ ~ ~

For those of you who wonder how the heck I can claim to struggle with words and then write so many, here’s a summary I probably should have placed at the beginning. Ha! I had a break from treatment for four months (due to severe side effects, long Covid and its complications, as well as major dental work). In July I finally decided to end all treatment for the foreseeable future (and what a glorious two weeks of relief and rest came with that decision!). I thought that once the cancer began to grow again—perhaps in a couple of months?—I might have some renewed strength and increased capacity to continue treatment. However, within two weeks of my decision, the cancer was growing again, forcing me to return to the drawing board. (Again, terminal cancer is so confusing and the decisions are so crazy!) At this point, we’re taking one test and appointment and infusion at a time, asking God for wisdom just as we need it. My first infusion back (8/15) was not a good one, so we’re truly taking things day by day right now. I have a lineup of significant tests and appointments in the next couple of weeks, so I appreciate your prayers for clarity and peace and joy, as well as eyes to see who I can love for Jesus every time I step foot in that cancer clinic. It’s never a mistake when I find myself there, no matter how hard it is to show up.

~ ~ ~

And friends, you know I love hearing how I can pray for you too (even though I’m perpetually awful at responding to messages, argh). Our cancer journey is not the only hard thing going on! So many of you model for me the very things I write about in these updates.

I love and appreciate you all more than you know…

Colleen

__________________

March 1

My sweet friends!

I’m sitting here at my desk—a beautiful little workspace tucked into the corner of my bedroom—with two happy houseplants and a list of writing projects that far exceeds my capacity at the moment. Between sips of hot black decaf coffee, I’m asking myself again, How do I make sense of this stage of our journey? How in the world do I find words for it?

So maybe I’ll start down a rabbit trail and work my way backwards . . . But if you’d like to bypass my verbosity and skip straight to the end, you’ll find a bulleted list with some treatment deets.

~ ~ ~

I don’t remember when my obsession with World War II began, but I’ve devoured more books and movies on the subject than I can count. Like many of you, I’m captivated by the sweeping magnitude of suffering as well as heroism of WWII. Currently I’m reading both Hitler’s Boy Soldiers and The Betrayal of Anne Frank (light bedtime reading)—the first, a story of a 9-year-old German boy whose parents naively enrolled him into Hitler’s elite youth program; the second, a cold case investigation to find the betrayer of a 15-year-old Jewish girl and her family.

I’m both appalled and fascinated by the cultural influences, the religious nuances, the geography and military tactics, the technological advances and the dehumanization that made up a war that spanned the globe. But I’m most captivated by how people responded to the suffering as it unfolded over many years—from the first days of food rations to the final horrifying days of Auschwitz, to decades after the war as countries rebuilt leveled cities and survivors attempted to reenter society with undiagnosed PTSD. 

Suffering of any shape or size is still suffering. But what happens when suffering is long? — when a German boy-soldier doesn’t get to see his parents for ten years? when a teenage girl spends two years cramped in a dark, silent annex with eight other people—only to eventually be captured and sent to die in a concentration camp? While none of us have experienced anything like the horrors of WWII, wouldn’t we all agree that it’s the gravitas of sustained suffering that resonates with us? 

~ ~ ~

It’s been almost 6 years since I first discovered that ominous pea-sized lump in my right breast—and exactly 4 years since we finished treatment for Cancer Round 1. It’s been 23 months since we heard the cancer was back, and 21 months since we heard that the cancer was, in fact, incurable. I’m fast approaching my 50th chemo infusion, I’ve earned 11 scars from 6 surgeries, and long ago I gave up counting my scans and blood tests and doctor appointments. 

YET, even while the scope and scale of “the long goodbye” can be deeply wearisome and often grueling—I can’t fathom living apart from this terminal diagnosis now. Isn’t that bizarre? Death has become an ever-present companion whose nearness makes everything feel both weighty with beauty and as fragile as a soap bubble. And while Death is still every bit the last enemy, he’s ultimately been defeated and can no longer enslave me with his terror (Hebrews 2:14-15), so his presence serves a purpose. I’m convinced that a palpable sense of our mortality can open us up to greater eternal realities, including weightier joys and fuller freedom and an ever-increasing experience of Jesus. (Perhaps it’s our first-world sense of invincibility that’s an even greater enemy than death?) 

~ ~ ~

I think the strangest thing about this phase of our journey is that the three of us carry this heavy reality—like a pair of fifty-pound dumbbells—into our workdays and school classrooms and sports practices and get-togethers—as if it’s normal to lug this deadweight around (hm . . . pun not originally intended, but it def works). And while we may have gained some muscle memory for how to talk about death as a family or push through chemo’s side effects or prepare for the unthinkable, there’s just nothing normal about it. It can be lonely even as we lean hard into community. It can be exhausting even as we experience God sustaining us with gifts of joy and laughter and many, many daily mercies. 

And so, like many of you (because here’s me on repeat: cancer doesn’t have the corner on the market of suffering!)—here we are, holding both grief and gratitude in hand as God holds us together. Yes, I am weary but oh do I feel so loved by Jesus. So treasured by him. What a privilege it is to suffer in his name and see him “acting on behalf of those who wait for him” (Isaiah 64:4). 

I wish I could share all the ways God has “acted on our behalf,” but I’ll just highlight one for now: we’re part of a precious church community here in the Boise area where we are being lavishly loved and cared for, and where we are getting to love and care for others even within our limitations. Yesterday morning our church pastors and elders took time out of their (insanely busy!) schedules to sit with our family, anoint me with oil, lay hands on me, and pray over the three of us. I can’t begin to describe how meaningful and encouraging it was, how deeply strengthening. (I had both tears and snot running down my face.) We have been so well loved by them, by our larger church family, by you all, and we are constantly aware that we just couldn’t do this without you. You’re helping us carry these heavy dumbbells around—even as you carry your own heavy burdens. You never cease to amaze me.

You know by now that I love hearing about your own hard, love praying with you and for you in it. 

Thanks for being our people. We adore you and thank our God for you.

Colleen (for Eddie and Jeremy too)

~ ~ ~

For those of you who like details, here’s a recap. Nothing too new here since my last update, but it means so much when you ask for specifics, so I’m always happy to share….

INFUSION SCHEDULE
Maintenance chemo infusions are still every three weeks. This Friday is my third consecutive infusion since my glorious holiday break. The more consecutive infusions I have, the greater the cumulative exhaustion and side effects, and the more quality time I spend at home in my recliner. Ha! Because of this, I’m committed to continue taking “chemo breaks” every six months or so—to come up for air and live a little larger (like I did in December and January!).

SCANS
Yesterday was a routine scan to make sure my heart is still strong enough to handle maintenance chemo. I only get PET scans or MRI’s when I have symptoms (pain at the site of metastases in my spine/ribs/hip/chest wall/lymph nodes; dramatic weight loss, etc.). My last PET scan showed that the cancer is not currently growing. PRAISE GOD.

WHAT’S AHEAD
When the cancer eventually finds a pathway around the maintenance chemo, I’ll need to go back on “killer chemo,” the kind that makes me bald and super sick. To be honest, I’m not sure how my body will be able to do that for a third time, but there will be grace when the moment comes. For now, it’s an indescribable gift to have more time. Those of you praying for a miracle: today is one of the many, many answers to your prayers!

____________

January 3

Happy New Year, dear friends!

It’s been a few months since my last update, mostly because there’s not been much to share on the cancer front: chemo has been patchier the past few months due to sickness and holidays and health insurance kerfuffles. As a result, I’ve had more days of energy and fewer side effects, which has been absolutely lovely. I’ll be back on track with treatment starting with my next infusion on January 13.

I did wear a holter monitor for a couple of weeks in October, and it confirmed that my heart does not like Herceptin (aka, maintenance chemo). While my cardio-oncologist believes these heart episodes are not life-threatening at this point, he says they are a reaction to the long-term chemo and understands they’re difficult to live with. He offered to put me on a heart med so I don’t feel the heart-attack like symptoms, but the med would lower my already low blood pressure, which could present yet another problem. So at this point we haven’t jumped at the offer but we know it’s there if I tire of the episodes.

My WBC (white blood count) is also a perpetual struggle, constantly below range, which opens me up to more complex illnesses and infections. So I’m currently one of five people in Idaho who still wears a mask in crowded public settings. Haha.

Between the heart issues and the tanked WBC, we’ve decided to continue as many consecutive chemo infusions as possible, but then take breaks when necessary so I can come up for air, give my heart a rest, let my WBC rebound a bit, and live a little larger—which I’ve definitely done over the past two weeks on this chemo break! We’ve had such incredible times with family and friends and neighbors, and my heart is overflowingly FULL as this new year begins. (However, I’ve been back in my recliner the past two days because sometimes I take things a little too far. Anyone else also lack a Moderation Mode? Lol.)

Despite the continual dance through treatments and side effects, we are utterly stunned and indescribably grateful that God is using chemo (and perhaps my strict diet and naturopathic protocol as well) to hold my wildfire cancer at bay. A year ago I could not have imagined being here like this! I know many of you are praying for a miracle of full healing, but this extended time feels miraculous in and of itself. What a gift from God who faithfully holds every last one of my days (all of our days!) in his hands.

That’s it as far as the medical/health side of things goes. On the more personal side of things, I haven’t been able to describe the inner workings of my head and heart for weeks now. I’ve noticed how exhausted I am every time I try to write. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’ve spent the past 20 months laboring long and hard to put deep places into words, and I’m simply word-tired—or if it’s because my head and heart are exhausted from the long intense journey. Whatever the reason, I’ve prayed that God would give me more words in his perfect timing because I’m still convinced that writing is a huge part of why God entrusted me with this terminal diagnosis. The desire to communicate God’s goodness in suffering still burns strong in my bones!

I know many of you are in deep waters right now, so I’ll leave you with a word that has been a strong encouragement to me in the past month, verses (from 2 Corinthians 9) that I’ve been memorizing and praying often:

Thank you again and again for the way you’ve done this for us, friends— You’ve cared tangibly and generously and faithfully for us in the midst of your own burdens and sorrows, and we are continually amazed and grateful. ?

Love you all dearly . . .

Colleen

The post Cancer Updates 2023 appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

I see things so differently now. Suffering isn’t a classroom—it’s an invitation into the heart of God. The greatest thing I can do with my life is love God and love people (Matthew 22:36-40), so whatever furthers that goal has to, ultimately, be insanely good for me—and for those my life touches. 

And in my own experience, it has been pain and grief and loss and long waits and distress and brokenness that have best helped me experience Jesus’ perfect love—and best enlarged my heart to love others in a way I never could have imagined twenty-five years ago. (We see this reality all over the Word. See Philippians 3:10 and Psalm 119:71 for starters.) 

I haven’t effortlessly embraced hardships in my life, and I haven’t easily accepted cancer. Not by a long shot. After both diagnoses, I wrestled long and hard with God, with lots of sobbing sessions in the dark corners of my closet, processing with family and besties and counselors, searching Scripture and asking hard questions. Lots of sleepless nights grieving harder than I thought my heart could endure. 

But if, for me, terminal cancer is the way into greater love for both God and people—then it is a gift, not a linear lesson to be learned as quickly as possible. My present suffering will only get harder and harder, and it won’t end until I die, but every day I’m pressed further and further into God’s heart—and that enables me to walk through “the valley of the shadow of death” with a God who also “leads me beside quiet waters” and “restores my soul” (see Psalm 23). Mysteriously enough, the process of walking with him through that valley and beside those waters is what teaches me how to better love and care for others. 

God may heal me yet, but only if my healing presses me further into Love. Only if healing can eternally accomplish what terminal cancer cannot. 

So my prayer has not been for a miracle, but for more days here to love God and love people, and I fight toward that end, especially for the sake of my husband and my son.

The pressing question is no longer, “Why doesn’t God heal me?” but, “What if healing would rob me of a life of love?”

The post Why hasn’t God healed me? appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

Plus, by nature I’m a private person (not quiet, but private!), so posting personal information online always feels like I’m high diving into a bathtub: equal parts scary and foolish. Anyone else feel me on this?

But over the years I’ve learned that this online space can be a gift—a unique way to share the love of Jesus and encourage others. And because many of you are also walking through cancer (your own or your loved one’s), I think it could be helpful if I share a few more details of our journey with you. Reading others’ experiences with cancer has helped me over these years: to normalize some of the crazy, to validate some of the hard, to strengthen me for the next step.

All that to say—I hope this summary of our cancer journey is helpful, not scary or overwhelming. I hope too that you can picture me sitting here at my desk with a mug of hot black decaf coffee, writing this account with miraculous peace, blown away by a God who has woven his extraordinary goodness into every dark detail and grief-filled day of the past five years. I’ll say it again: God never ever cheats his children—he always out-gives them. May you feel the truth of that even as you read this summary.

~ ~ ~

In July 2017, I felt a pea-sized lump in my right breast as I showered. After a long, complicated testing process, I was diagnosed with cancer (stage 2B, IDC, triple positive, Chek2) on November 7.

A slew of appointments and scans followed, and we formed my treatment team (medical oncologist, surgical oncologist, reconstructive/plastic surgeon, integrative MD, and holistic oncologist). Three days before Christmas, I had my right sentinel lymph node removed and my port placed. (The pea-sized mass was now bigger than a golf ball.) Twelve weekly rounds of neo-adjuvant chemo (Taxol, Carboplatin, Herceptin, Perjeta) began January 12, 2018. In May, a few weeks after my twelfth and final dose, I had a double-mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. We rejoiced over the news that the cancer was gone, and I began maintenance chemo and hormone therapy.

In October 2018 I had a follow-up corrective surgery, at which time my port was also removed. By February 2019 all surgeries and treatments were officially wrapped up, my hair was making a quick comeback, and I felt better overall. It was just 19 months from mass discovery to treatment’s end—and although I still struggled with chronic infections and some lingering side effects, I felt confident the cancer was gone for good.

When I found a little lump on my neck in August 2020, my oncologist ordered a PET scan—which insurance refused to approve. A less comprehensive scan was approved instead, and the results came back clear. That was December 2020.

One month later, I felt the faintest pain in my right arm pit as I applied deodorant—and a few weeks after that, my right ribs and hip began hurting. I initially assumed I’d injured them in a HIIT workout (hello there, middle age), but when the pain in my armpit grew into a palpable lump, I grew suspicious. We began the testing process all over again, even as our family packed to move out of state. Two days before our move, I had multiple lymph nodes biopsied—and one week later (5 days after we landed in Idaho), I received the results via a telemedicine appointment: the cancer was back. I quickly established with a reputable cancer center in Boise, navigated another insurance debacle, which pushed off all medical care for a month—but I eventually had a PET scan, and on June 2, 2021, heard the worst: stage four. Incurable. The cancer was on my spine, ribs, hips, and in my lymph nodes. Within weeks, it spread to my chest wall as well. The metastases were growing like wildfire, causing increasing pain that soon made it difficult for me to do simple tasks such as dress, walk, drive, and cook. I couldn’t imagine surviving even one year—though I was resolved to live fully every last day God would give me with my husband and son.

In June 2021 I spent two weeks at an integrative clinic in St. George, where I was able to resolve some of my chronic infections, fortify my body, and find holistic support and supplements for the rigorous journey ahead. When I returned, I had a new port placed and chemo began (Taxol, Herceptin, Perjeta), as well as hormone therapy. With a few breaks along the way (since my body overreacts to chemo in a number of ways), I finished 12 rounds of Taxol in November 2021, then continued on Herceptin and Perjeta (often referred to as “maintenance chemo,” but technically immunotherapy). Because I was not able to tolerate hormone therapy—the goal of which is to starve estrogen-hungry cancer and thereby “buy me more time”—I opted for a bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy (i.e., they yanked out my ovaries and fallopian tubes, ha!) this past May, resulting in Instapot Menopause (thank you, Lis, for that term of perfection).

In September, due to my body’s struggle to tolerate perpetual maintenance chemo, I took a month off (glorious, glorious month!). Currently I’m back to infusions every three weeks and I’m continuing my protocol of naturopathic treatments. (On a side note: many people message me with a variety of cancer cures, but I’m so grateful for and perfectly at peace with how God has led us to wed allopathic and naturopathic treatments for my body’s unique needs and cancer diagnosis.) God is graciously using these myriad treatments and daily protocols to hold the cancer at bay for now, and we are unbelievably grateful for this miraculous gift of more time.

Of course, the gift of more time comes at a high price—my body is indescribably wearied and weakened by these five-plus years of cancer and treatments and surgeries (on the heels of a decade of chronic illness). Ironically, I look fine, healthy even, but I have less and less resilience and energy. I spend 13 to 14 of every 24 hours in bed, and I often tire after completing simple tasks or social interactions. YET I’m living more fully than ever before, I’m experiencing more of Jesus than I ever thought possible, and I’m convinced that this terminal diagnosis is one of the greatest gifts God has ever entrusted to me. (For more on that, you can read my Cancer Updates and articles on this site.)

The post Our cancer journey appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

March 8, 2022

Hello, dear friends!

Thank you, thank you for your continued messages of love and encouragement. I’m mortified at how behind I am in replying to you all, but please know how much your words care for me (for us) and what a lifeline they are. I know your lives are crazy-busy, so it makes your gift of time and encouragement all the more precious to me.

I’ve appreciated some of your questions in recent months, and I thought it might be helpful to make this update into a Q-&-A of sorts. I’ve concluded that cancer and its treatments are just plain ol’ confusing and difficult to make sense of (much less explain), and I’ve done a marvelous job of throwing out just enough details and terminology to cause mass confusion. Ha! So I’ll try to sort some of it out for you here, and you can just read the ones that interest you and skip over the others:

Wait, what? You’re still doing chemo?

Yes, it’s totally confusing! In July ’21, I started on a trifecta of chemotherapy: Taxol, Herceptin, and Perjeta. Taxol is the drug that kills rapidly dividing cells, which is why it’s so effective at killing cancer cells (as well as hair, brows, lashes, etc.). But because it is so harmful to the body, standard-of-care limits Taxol to twelve doses. I had my twelfth dose at the end of November, so now I’m on Herceptin and Perjeta only, and those are administered every three weeks instead of every week.

Herceptin and Perjeta aren’t technically chemotherapy by definition, but they are administered and referred to as if they were. They are “targeted therapy medicines that treat HER2-positive breast cancer by blocking the cancer cells’ ability to receive growth signals.”(1) HER2 is “a protein called human epidermal growth factor receptor 2″(2), and if I understand correctly, about 1 in 5 breast cancer patients are positive for this receptor like I am.

Herceptin and Perjeta still make me sick and tired but much less so than Taxol. I have daily waves of energy that I ride (and enjoy!) in between trips to the bathroom and the recliner. Haha.

Taxol will be back on the table once hormone therapy cannot hold the aggressive cancer at bay. But for now, I’m so grateful for a break! And for The Return of Some Hair.

Why can’t chemo and surgery get all the cancer like it did last time?

It’s a great question. Because chemo kills only rapidly dividing cells, it can effectively kill (or, at the least, significantly shrink) localized cancer tumors. Think of it as cleaning crud out of a toilet. The crud is contained in the bowl, and a good cleaning solution and some elbow grease will do the job.

But cancer that is widespread (referred to as “distant”) in the body means that not only are the cancer cells in widespread circulation, but the cancer stem cells are as well—and those stem cells are NOT rapidly dividing, therefore they cannot be killed by chemo nor removed by surgery. They will continue to grow cancer wherever they circulate. As opposed to that mess contained in a toilet bowl, this is akin to cleaning up a major sewage spill in the ocean.

In 2017, my cancer was found only in my right breast, and while it was incredibly aggressive and fast-growing, it was contained—it had not yet spread to my lymph nodes and beyond. So the chemo effectively shrunk the tumor to a size that could safely be removed surgically.

As of Spring 2021, the cancer stem cells are present all over my body and can’t be eradicated by chemo or surgery. So chemo can temporarily hold back the onslaught, but eventually the cancer finds new pathways around the drugs.

Why not stop the toxic treatments and get to the root of your cancer with natural methods and treatments?

Again, a great question—and one we’ve asked ourselves. This was a hard series of conversations and decisions at the outset of both diagnoses—but especially with this terminal diagnosis. I’m super-duper sensitive to most medicines, so I’ve always tended toward natural cures and treatments. And I long ago pooh-poohed sugar and processed foods, chemical cleaners in our home, aluminum deodorants, etc. In other words, I’m a fan of all things natural.

But every cancer diagnosis is complex and unique, and what works for one person may not work for another. With my particular diagnosis and the aggressive nature of my cancer, I don’t have the luxury of time to experiment with a zero-medicine or extreme-natural-treatment approach. Which is why we’ve decided to wed the two worlds–making the most of both allopathic and naturopathic treatments.

(1) https://www.breastcancer.org/research-news/perjeta-plus-herceptin-and-chemo-shows-benefits
(2) https://www.mayoclinic.org/breast-cancer/expert-answers/faq-20058066

What’s the purpose of your hormone therapy?

My hormone therapy is two-pronged: there’s an every-third-month Zoladex injection (it shoots what looks like a big grain of white rice into my belly), which shuts down my ovaries (and therefore the estrogen that feeds my cancer), and there’s a daily oral pill that kills the circulating estrogen in my body (that originates in the gut, etc.).

Starving the cancer of estrogen is another way of slowing its growth, so while I absolutely loathe the side-effects of hormone therapy, I’m grateful for it.

How often are you getting scans done?

I love my oncologist’s approach to scans at this stage of things: we let my symptoms or the appearance of new masses dictate my scan schedule. So if my appetite decreases, or I experience new pain, or I find a new mass, etc., we run the appropriate scan. Last week I was in for another ultrasound—and a follow-up ultrasound plus a biopsy may be next. But I’m grateful we’re not just running superfluous scans every few months because (1) they are crazy expensive and (2) I am so so weary of nonstop appointments/tests/procedures and am oh-so-happy to skip the unnecessary ones.

What timeline did the doctors give you?

Here’s the thing: We’ve hesitated to share any specific timeline because it isn’t necessarily something we are banking on, nor does it feel helpful for anyone else to bank on. (What if God takes me before then? Or gives me more time?) The first timeline I was given last June quickly felt outpaced by how swiftly the cancer was overtaking my body. I was pleading with God to give me another year—to let me make it to Jeremy’s 11th birthday (this July). Since then, I’ve swung back and forth between “I don’t think I have much longer” and “I just might have longer than I thought”—depending upon test results, how my body feels, the discovery of a new mass, etc. It’s a bizarre and bitter and beautiful experience to be so constantly aware of my end, to have disappointing test results follow on the heels of good ones, to fight so hard for some more time here even as I feel weary-to-the-bone of fighting. To the marrow of my soul I feel the apostle Paul’s struggle in his letter to the Philippians:

“Now if I live on in the flesh, this means fruitful work for me; and I don’t know which one I should choose. I am torn between the two. I long to depart and be with Christ—which is far better—but to remain in the flesh is more necessary for your sake.” (1:22-24)

Of course, once I begin to decline, we will have a much clearer idea of my timeline and will share specifics with you then. That feels heavy to write, so I pray there will be much grace and peace as you read this.

~ ~ ~

This is a sacred suffering…

I’m sitting in chemo chair #13 as I write this paragraph, listening to the man next to me talk in painfully slurred speech about his most recent surgeries and how his cancer has come back. Two chairs down is a woman who is here for the first time. (There is nothing quite like your first chemo infusion.) Here at St. Luke’s, you can have a friend or family member come in and sit with you during your first infusion (but Covid rules prohibit any visitors after that), yet this woman’s friend didn’t want to stay—she left to take her car in for a tune-up. I listened as the nurse explained all the possible side effects of the drugs being infused into this new cancer patient’s body—as she sat there all alone.

I could tell you story after story like this. You could cut through the suffering here with a knife. And I’m reminded that this is why God entrusts suffering to his children—because it is the way to enter in with and love a world that is suffering. Why would I ask to be delivered from this awful diagnosis if it means bringing Jesus’ hope and light and love to the darkest corners of this chemo ward and beyond? Why leave the suffering to those who are alone and without the love of Jesus? We who know and love Jesus are here for just this purpose—to lay down our lives to love others for him.

But we’re so enamored with ease and comfort and health and beauty and longevity and financial security and influence and success. (I’m as guilty of this as the next person.) But the way of Jesus is the way of the cross—and the way of the cross is the way of the empty tomb, and the empty tomb means death defeated and resurrection power! To avoid suffering is to miss out on Christ’s life powerfully at work in us. It’s to miss out on caring deeply for others, in ways that will be felt into eternity.

You, dear friends, have your own sacred sufferings, and I want to encourage you as I’m encouraging myself today: let’s wrap our arms around the cross we bear, the cross we bear with him, the cross that leads to everlasting joy—not just for us but also for all those our lives touch. Not one moment of our suffering is wasted. It is working MIRACLES behind the scenes. It is “preparing for us an eternal weight of glory.” There is so much purpose and hope to be had today.

So grateful to be on this journey with you. You all are precious beyond words to us—

Colleen

“The weightiest end of the cross of Christ that is laid upon you, lieth upon your strong Savior. For Isaiah says that in all your afflictions he is afflicted [63:9]. … Glad may your soul be, even to walk in the fiery furnace, with one like the Son of man, who is also the Son of God. Courage up your heart; when you tire, he will bear both you and your burden [Psalm 55:22].”
—Samuel Rutherford, Letters (1628)

~ ~ ~

April 29, 2022

Hello, sweet friends!

It’s been a couple of months since I last emailed, so I hope to write a more informative and heartfelt update soon. But for now, we’d love your prayers as I go in for surgery this coming Wednesday, May 4th, at 7:00 a.m. (I just heard several of you think, May the Fourth be with you. I receive that blessing.) The side effects of hormone therapy have become unsustainable (nice-speak for some choice words and grueling details I’ve decided not to share here *snort*), so I’ve opted for the alternative of removing my ovaries and tubes. Because I’ve already undergone multiple surgeries, my doctor didn’t want to rush into yet another one—but we finally concluded it’s the far lesser evil.

This is an outpatient surgery, and even though I’ll be undergoing general anesthesia, I should be home within five hours if all goes well. Honestly, it feels like I’ve scheduled nothing more than a trip to Costco on a holiday weekend (annoying but not newsworthy), but I realize that you all appreciate staying informed about these kinds of things—and it would be good to have people praying that my body will be strong and recover well, and that this procedure will be effective in “buying me some more time” as it will cut off much of the estrogen supply that feeds my cancer.

It’s been awhile since I’ve donated a body part (so far a pair of tonsils, two breasts, and a sentinel lymph node), so it feels timely and right to give again. Hm. I probably shouldn’t be writing this email right now, as I’m feeling entirely too punchy and my sense of humor is mildly morbid. But I do wish you all could be here with me today, sharing a Topo Chico and some spring sunshine—and laughing together at some of the craziness that is Stage 4 Cancer.

A lot has happened these past two months, so I’ll update you on more of these things soon. Until then, thank you so much for praying for me/us this coming Wednesday. I’ll shoot you a quick email once I’m out of surgery and home recovering.

As always, I love hearing from you and knowing how I can be praying for you too!

Love you all so so much,
Colleen

~ ~ ~

June 27, 2022

Friends, I can’t believe I’m sitting here writing to you. Last year at this time, my body was growing cancer faster than we could get tests done and treatment started—so it is nothing short of a marvel that I’m still walking around (last summer I got to the point where every step was labored and painful); I’m still eating and drinking and breathing and laughing and writing. God is giving me more time to LIVE and every day feels like an extraordinary gift.

Do you remember me saying how I wanted to LIVE FULLY every day God would give me? Well, this past year has been burstingly full of that life. In the midst of breathtaking grief and insanely dark days, I feel like I’ve been more myself than ever before. Yes, I’ve been messy and frail and sometimes downright difficult to be around, but despite it all, I’ve been living out of the heart Jesus gave me. When someone recently asked me to describe this past year, I said, “There have been no throwaways.” Every moment has been weighty and sacred and significant. Everything has mattered immensely. (Even the worst moments.)

In reflecting on the past year, I’m also stunned at how God has paved the way for me to do just what his Spirit pressed into my heart minutes after I heard my terminal diagnosis: “I want you to write. That’s one of the reasons I’ve entrusted you with this diagnosis.” And so I’ve written and written and written—books and letters and Bible studies and poems and emails and prayers. I’ve written on my laptop, in my phone Notes app (usually at 3:00 in the morning), on scraps of paper, in the pages of journals. And as the year has unfolded, and God has faithfully revealed more of “the good works he’s prepared for me ahead of time,” I’ve leaned into those with such an experience of his presence carrying me along. It’s been an indescribably full and fulfilling year.

The flipside of this gift of more life, more time, more beautiful work to do—is that there’s not a day that goes by (sometimes there’s not even an hour that goes by) when I don’t feel the painful reality of my diagnosis and the rub of living amid “normalcy.” (I know “normal” has been drastically redefined for all of us in recent years, but I mean the normalcy of even just getting out of the house or having energy to accomplish basic household tasks. I find myself watching people in awe as they hurry here and there and everywhere. Keeping a bare-minimum schedule is exhausting to me right now.) A couple of my besties recently told me that I talk about going to my chemo infusion as if I’m going to a hair salon. Haha. Yep, that’s the new normal. Chemo till the end. Doctor appointments stacked upon blood tests stacked upon medical bills. Normal is struggling to get myself out of bed before 9:00 am each morning because my body is not happy—and then crawling back into bed by 9:00 at night. Normal is quietly slipping into the bathroom when we have company—to let my body get sick, then walking right back out to rejoin everyone as if nothing happened. Normal is a whack-a-mole of symptoms and side effects. (My left arm is lathered with hydrocortisone cream as I write this due to an ongoing itch-and-burn.) Normal is… weird.

And so I live in this sort of “middle space,” and it’s beautiful and strange and hard and deeply meaningful all at the same time. It’s the agony and the ecstasy. And I know many of you resonate with this in your own unique ways. (This is me being a broken record: A terminal diagnosis doesn’t have the corner on the market of suffering. One of my best friends just had her right leg amputated, and I haven’t found any words for the pain I feel for her. I can’t even imagine that kind of suffering. Another dear friend is walking with her teenager through dark days of mental illness, and it’s brought me to tears more than once. I could go on and on. Fill-in-the-blank with your suffering, and you too understand what it’s like to live in this middle space.)

But there’s a truth that’s played on repeat in my head and heart lately. I’ve been studying the book of Jude, and at the end of his brief letter, after he’s elaborated on how irrational and irreverent and hateful some people are, Jude tells his dear friends to “keep yourselves in the love of God.” It’s become my constant prayer: “God, help me keep myself in your love.” In a day so rife with hate and rage and division, and in the midst of suffering, those of us who keep ourselves in God’s love can be the most winsome, courageous, gentle, merciful, truthful, peaceful people on the planet because God’s love grows our hearts big and gives us hope to hold out to those who desperately need his love as much as we once did (…as much as we still do).

There’s so much more I could say, so many things I haven’t updated you on, but since I’ve struggled with how to find words for it all these past several months—I’ll consider it a win that I’m finally sending you more than a poem or surgery notification (ha!), even if this is not as clear or concise as I would like it to be. And in the spirit of Jude I’ll close with this: I pray today that you, dear friends, will keep yourselves in the love of God (—and pray for me too, that I’ll do the same).

Oh how I love you all!

Colleen

~ ~ ~

September 7, 2022

Dear friends—

I had every intention of writing a super brief update, but lo and behold–the novella. (Again.) I’d suggest skimming, speed-reading, or perhaps popping a big bowl of popcorn to get yourself through to the end. Ha! Okay, here goes:

Despite my verbosity, these updates have actually gotten harder and harder to write. I don’t know how to adequately describe these days. I long to be honest but hopeful, real but not depressing. How do I make sense of both the agony and the ecstasy? How do I do justice to the massive joys while describing the crushing sorrows?

~ ~ ~

On the medical side of things— I’m taking a month off of chemo due to some increasingly difficult side effects and exhaustion. Long-term chemo is rugged! It deteriorates bones and organs, especially the heart—so in addition to my every-three-month EKG, my doctor has referred me to a cardio-oncologist for a more thorough look at why my heart is acting out. (We’re still waiting for insurance to approve the referral.) We’re hoping this break from chemo gives my body some much-needed rest and strengthens my bones and bowels and heart (etc.!), so I can continue with treatment at the end of September.

I’ll admit, I’m experiencing a weariness I can’t quite put into words. The indescribably beautiful gift of more time comes at a high price that my body is tired of paying. Our cancer journey began five years ago, so I’m no stranger to pushing through myriad pains and rigorous side effects, but the past 16 months have required more of me than I ever thought physically (and emotionally and mentally) possible, and my body – is – exhausted.

Strangely enough, I look fine, even healthy—no one would guess I have stage-four cancer—but I feel almost fragile physically and definitely less resilient, like a rubber-band that’s lost it’s stretch and bounce. Even my favorite tasks, outings, and get-togethers feel akin to summiting Mt. Everest.

But—remember how I wrote to you about Mystery? It’s even truer now, several months later: the greater my weariness and weakness, the greater my experience of eternal realities, of Jesus’ presence, of living out of the heart God has given me. I still laugh loud and love hard. I crunch writing deadlines. I still dream (“A third book before I’m gone, Lord?”), and even when I feel like there’s not much “fight” left in my body, I fight harder than ever—not only for more days with Eddie and Jeremy, with my family and besties, but also for more days to share Jesus’ love and hope with a broken, hurting world.

And so I walk in glorious, agonizing, indescribable mystery and feel the sacred trust of more breath, more life, more time. I can almost feel God holding me together and giving me another day to love him and to love people. He still wants me here (at least for this moment)—even as he’s wooing me Home.

Yes, terminal cancer can be, in the words of Rory Gilmore, “like a pop-up book from hell” (writing that just made me laugh so hard). But God loves taking our hellish circumstances and turning them into OVERFLOWING LIFE,* outgiving us even as he asks much of us.

I know that the grace I’m experiencing (and that Eddie and Jeremy are experiencing) is due to God answering your faithful prayers for us. Friends, your prayers are the greatest gift in the world!! Thank you with all my heart. Two specific ways you can pray for us right now are: (1) that I’ll be able to sleep more than a few hours each night, and (2) that God would continue to increase our family’s capacity to suffer with joy and hope and purpose and peace.

I’ll say it again and again: terminal cancer doesn’t have the corner on the market of suffering. So many of you are facing your own deep griefs and pains and losses, and I’m so grateful you share them with me and show me Jesus in them. I love praying for you, and I love YOU more than you know.

One more thing I think you should know: I basically live in yoga pants and hoodies because I’m too tired to keep up with clothes trends, and comfortable clothes are everything right now—but I ordered a pair of flare jeans that arrived this week, and I told Eddie I got them because I still want to be sassy.

From your exhausted, grateful, weary, sassy friend—

Colleen

P.S. (Because what’s an update from me without a P.S.?) – My longtime friend and website wizard, Sarah Robinson, spent tireless hours redesigning my cranky old website, and has created a beautiful, organized space for me to share my podcasts, articles, videos, and books. What. A. Gift. You can see her lovely work at colleenchao.com.

P.P.S. – Thank you, thank you to those of you who continue to reach out to and check in on Eddie, and who love Jeremy so well. My heart is strengthened when I see my boys cared for!!

*John 10:10

The post Cancer Updates 2022 appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

Below is a collection of emails I’ve sent to friends regarding my second, and terminal, cancer diagnosis. I’ve edited out the more personal information so that these updates can be passed along freely. My prayer is that the beauty of Jesus shines brightly into many hearts out of our family’s present darkness.

He is better than life itself—

Colleen

May 12, 2021
Hello, dear friends!
Just four months ago, we had no idea we’d be moving out of state—nor that we’d be facing a second cancer diagnosis. So much has changed in such a short time, yet as John Snyder so beautifully puts it, God remains our unaltered environment.
For those of you who appreciate the cliff notes version, here it is—
On April 28, five days after moving into our new house, we got the results of my biopsy: cancer in the lymph nodes. We immediately looked into two reputable cancer institutes here and chose to transfer my care from City of Hope in Southern California to an esteemed medical center in the heart of our capital city—and just 25 minutes from our new home. What a gift to be so close to my care this time around!
Within the next week or two we should know more conclusively what stage the cancer is (how far it’s spread in my body) and what my treatment plan looks like. At this point it seems likely we’ll begin with chemo—so I’m enjoying my hair and eyelashes and eyebrows more than you can imagine.
For those of you who like the unabridged version, read on.
Yes, it’s crazy to be back here. To hear the words “it’s cancer” again. To know in gritty detail what all this means. The first several days after diagnosis were dark and full of tears. I wept because my body is not a healthy and strong body, and much physical suffering is ahead. I wept even more because I could not bear the grief of what this means for my dear husband. But I wept the most—out of deep and unspeakable places of my soul—because I’m a mom of a 9-year-old boy and there are no words for what goes on in a mama’s heart when faced with her mortality.
The first night of my diagnosis, my son laid in bed next to me and wept, “I don’t want you to die, Mom.” And “Why did God let you get cancer a second time?”
And this might sound strange, but those are sacred parenting moments. Moments so painful yet so utterly precious, you can almost feel God’s breath on you as you gently walk your child through grief to hope, reminding him of what you so desperately need to remember yourself: this life is just a blink, whether you die at 20 or 95, and none of us is promised tomorrow. Today is a gift, and if God fills it with suffering, it’s because he loves us too much to let us waste our lives on pathetic little earth-pleasures. He wants to give us breathtaking treasure that lasts forever—and suffering is often the means by which he gives it.
After those first few weeping days and nights, I’ve experienced a peace and joy and calm-down-to-my-bones that just doesn’t make sense on a human level. God is with me, he is with my husband, he is with my son and—as I told one of my doctors—that is our hope.
“I sought the Lord, and he answered me and rescued me from all my fears. Those who look to him are radiant with joy; their faces will never be ashamed.” Psalm 34:4-5
Thank you for standing with us and praying for us. I’ll keep you updated as we know more. We love you so so much, friends–
Colleen (for Eddie too)

May 29, 2021
Friends, thank you so much for your outpouring of love these past few weeks! We have felt so cared for—not only by you long-time friends but also by our new friends and neighbors here in Idaho. We are so grateful. I’m behind in responding to your messages, but please know how much your words mean to this words-of-encouragement girl. I feel strengthened for the journey through you!
Okay, for you cliff-notes folks:
On May 14th I met with my new medical oncologist. She is incredibly knowledgeable and compassionate, and she listened with concern when I described what the last 12-week chemo cocktail did to me. Because my cancer is classified as “advanced” (as it is a recurrence), she hopes to get me approved for a stage-4 clinical trial that hopefully will behave less like a wicked stepmother and more like an annoying coworker. Ha!
Like last time, insurance issues have pushed back our timeline by a couple of weeks, but my doctor is expediting everything she can on her end so that we don’t waste time in beginning treatment. While I won’t have my first test results till this Wednesday, we do already know that my treatment plan will begin with chemo, followed by surgery then radiation. (We still won’t know what stage the cancer is, how widespread it is, till the third or fourth week of June. They are scanning EVERYTHING. I mean, we will know if the cancer is in my left pinky toenail, okay?)
Now for those of you who can hang with the verbose version….
The first time around we were shocked to discover that cancer is a full-time job—and that the normal stresses of life don’t sit on the bench just because cancer is playing first string. To look into the future even two weeks can feel completely overwhelming. So I’m working at staying present and grateful in the moment: I remind myself to stop and feel the cool breeze on my skin, quietly soak in the sight of E and J, or enjoy the taste of my hot black (albeit, decaf) coffee. I’ll admit, some days it’s arduous work for me to look for and appreciate the good things. But regardless of how I feel at any given moment, the truth is, each day is full of so many mercies, and there are countless gifts to be found even in the darkest places.
And while I’ve experienced so much peace as I thank God for his good gifts, I’ve also found comfort in being ruthlessly honest with him about the pain. In the past few weeks, my heart has been strengthened by the raw language of Psalm 73, 2 Corinthians 4–7, and the book of Job.
The psalmist Asaph said he was “afflicted all day long.”
Job said, “Anyone born of woman is short of days and full of trouble. … You [God] destroy a man’s hope” and “completely overpower him.”
And Paul said he felt “perplexed”—the Greek word aporeo, which means I “have no way out; I am at a loss; I am without resources and left wanting and don’t know which way to turn.”
I’ve definitely felt all of those things lately. But the beauty of being raw with God about our pain is that not only can he handle the full weight of our wrestling, he can also tenderly take our bleeding heart and make it stronger and more hopeful than it was before the pain.
Asaph said he was bitter about his nonstop affliction until he entered God’s presence. Then he was able to say, “My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart. … The nearness of God is my good.”
Job said that God does “things too wondrous for me to know. … I reject my [former, bitter] words and am sorry for them.”
And Paul said that although he did feel perplexed, he didn’t despair. He was experiencing Jesus’s life in his suffering. “Therefore,” he wrote, “we do not give up.”
I know I’m on the cusp of much more beauty, much more Jesus, because of this newest suffering. And that sustains me and keeps me pressing on!
~ ~ ~
A special thank you you to those of you who are praying for and supporting my amazing hubby. It means the world to me. The cancer patient so often is the center of attention and care, while the spouse quietly bears an indescribable burden without the same level of support. I have been crazy encouraged by those of you who are his good friends, who have messaged and called him, come to visit and hang out with him, and understood the enormous weight of what he’s carrying right now. I’m so grateful for you!
~ ~ ~
I’ll try to send out a brief update once I hear my first test results Wednesday. With so much love for each one of you….
Colleen

June 3, 2021
Dear friends,
This is a difficult email to write so I’ll keep this brief and succinct for now.
Yesterday I had my PET/CT scan in the morning and then met with my medical oncologist in the afternoon to discuss results. The cancer is stage 4 and, besides my lymph nodes, it’s in my spine, ribs, and hip. It is not curable, but chemo can control/slow its growth for a time. My brain MRI is tomorrow, and those results will determine even more of my timeline and treatment.
I know this is heavy. Words are clunky. These are indescribable moments to be sure and we are running the gamut of emotions around here. Ultimately we know God holds our days and has the final say on things. I’ll leave you with the hymn I sang aloud in my doctor’s office as I waited for results (and the hymn I have sung over my son since he was a newborn):
Be still my soul, the Lord is on thy side;
Bear patiently the cross of grief and shame.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change he faithful will remain.
Be still my soul—thy best, thy heavenly friend,
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.
So grateful all this pain is leading to an immeasurably joyful end,
Colleen
P.S. — Thank you for your amazing offers of help. What a gift they are. I have a couple of friends and family who are organizing meals, etc. for us and have asked to commandeer my email in the near future so they can communicate directly with you. I’m so humbled by all the ways we are being loved and surrounded right now.

June 9, 2021
Dear friends, we are praising God for merciful news from my doctor’s office yesterday: there is no detectable cancer in my brain. What a precious, precious gift of “a little more time.” We are unbelievably relieved and thankful.
We are also deeply thankful for your messages of compassion, encouragement, faith, and love. It pains me to not be able to respond to each of you individually and express how much your words mean to me, but please know how deeply I feel loved by every single one of your messages. And you’d be amazed at how timely they always are—God knows exactly when I need your encouragement.
I’m convinced that God alone determines the number of my days. No doctor or statistics or treatment can dictate the time or quality of life I have left on earth. Because this prognosis is so complicated, the cancer is so aggressive, and the decisions are so excruciating, we have to rest in the fact that God is guiding us and is with us and is working infinitely beautiful things out of the worst of circumstances. Our hope is in him, and we see him so clearly in this journey, we believe none of it is a mistake.
But I will admit that this past week the sorrow and grief have felt consuming, almost unbearable. Every time I look at my husband or son, I experience pain as I’ve never known before. But 2 Corinthians 4 keeps holding me fast:
We always carry the death of Jesus in our body, so that the life of Jesus may also be displayed in our body. For we who live are always being given over to death for Jesus’s sake, so that Jesus’s life may also be displayed in our mortal flesh. So then, death is at work in us, but life in you. … Indeed, everything is for your benefit so that, as grace extends through more and more people, it may cause thanksgiving to increase to the glory of God. Therefore we do not give up. Even though our outer person is being destroyed, our inner person is being renewed day by day. For our momentary light affliction is producing for us an absolutely incomparable eternal weight of glory. So we do not focus on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
Thank you again for your prayers—they are sustaining. Thank you for walking alongside us as you are. Thank you for reading heavy emails that must be difficult to read. We thank God for you.
Colleen

June 26, 2021
Friends, your love for us these past weeks has been absolutely stunning. I’ve been eager to update you, to somehow quantify this journey even as it’s so quickly and dramatically unfolded—but words have failed me till now.
I think maybe I can make some sense of our processing, and what is unfolding for us, if I begin with an account from the book of Daniel (chapters 8 through 10).
As many of you well know, the Jewish exile and prophet Daniel was without equal in his faith and knowledge and wisdom. He was a man of unparalleled courage and integrity and prayer, so much so that for 10 years now I have asked that God would raise up my son to be “a Daniel in his day.”
God entrusted Daniel with phenomenal dreams and visions. One of these visions came when God revealed to Daniel that 70 years of horrific desolation were in store for his people. In response, Daniel wrote—
I set my face toward Adonai Elohim, to seek him by prayer and petitions, with fasting, sackcloth, and ashes. I prayed to the Lord my God and confessed:
Ah, Lord – the great and awe-inspiring God who keeps his gracious covenant with those who love him and keep his commands – … God, hear the prayer and the petitions of your servant. Make your face shine on your desolate sanctuary for the Lord’s sake. Listen closely, my God, and hear. … For we are not presenting our petitions before you based on our righteous acts, but based on your abundant compassion. Lord, hear! Lord, forgive! Lord, listen and act! My God, for your own sake, do not delay, because your city and your people bear your name.
While I was praying, Gabriel, the man I had seen in the first vision, reached me in my extreme weariness. … He gave me this explanation: “Daniel, I’ve come now to give you understanding. At the beginning of your petitions an answer went out, and I have come to give it, for you are treasured by God.”
Daniel knew God so intimately, trusted him so implicitly, that when confronted with a devastating reality (which he knew came from God’s hand), he immediately banked his prayers on God’s compassion and grace and faithfulness. But he also suffered deeply from the knowledge of what was to come. Look at how his heart and body reacted to the news:
“I was overcome and lay sick for days”
“I was greatly disturbed”
“No strength was left in me”
“My face grew deathly pale”
“I was powerless”
“Anguish overwhelms me and I am powerless”
“I have no strength, and there is no breath in me”
I’m so grateful that a mighty man of God like Daniel was wholly human, wrecked by bad news even while fully convinced of God’s abundant compassion. One of my best friends, Nina, encouraged me early on to be okay with the consuming pain and grief, to be gentle with myself in the sleepless nights and the constant tears and the physical stress of it all. This was the word I most needed at that point, and it’s what I see Daniel modeling for me: it’s okay to be wrecked by news of ensuing death and destruction.
So our family has taken a walk in Daniel’s shoes this past month. We’ve cried out in grief, we’ve banked on God’s compassion and faithfulness, we’ve felt overcome and physically sick and emotionally weary beyond anything we’ve ever known.
We’ve also keenly sensed that we are treasured by God even in the midst of the grief, and we have seen him begin to answer our constant prayers for wisdom as we make incredibly complex decisions.
As Eddie and I have prayed and processed together, one thing has become crystal clear: I want to FULLY LIVE the days I’m still alive. And so we have decided to use integrative interventions and therapies that will work in tandem with standard medical care, with the hope that this wedding of protocols will allow my body to be stronger and will help to mitigate the side effects of chemo. (I shocked doctors last time with how violently I reacted to chemo—and that was with just a 12-week curative cocktail, not a perpetual palliative cocktail to the end of my days. Those of you who hung with me during chemo last time have agreed that my body probably wouldn’t make it even one year on full-time chemo.) Instead of constant chemo, we are going to limit chemo while working with doctors who use therapies that work with my body, not just poison it. We are resolved to make faith-filled, life-giving, and somewhat unconventional decisions at times so that I can still be a wife and a mom for whatever time I have left—and not just a bed-bound cancer patient slowly wasting away. If God chooses to give me more years than doctors predict, we will accept them with joy! And if my days are cut short, I hope to live them to the fullest by his grace and power.
In the midst of the grief and the overwhelm, we have grown hopeful—not necessarily for health and longevity, but for LIFE in ABUNDANCE. (After all, that’s what we’ve been given in Christ, and nothing can take that away!)
At the end of Daniel chapter 10, Daniel says,
Then the one with a human appearance touched me again and strengthened me. He said, “Don’t be afraid, you who are treasured by God. Peace to you; be very strong!”
God may entrust me (and you) with devastating news, but when we are treasured by God, we have all of his infinite resources at our fingertips. Peace is ours (even as we quake). Strength is ours (even in great weakness).
We love you dearly, friends. Thanks for being on this journey with us.
Because of his abundant compassion,
Colleen

July 30, 2021
Dear friends,
I’m taking a break between giving myself a coffee enema and administering my own viscum injection—while fighting through lingering nausea from last Friday’s chemo infusion. We are knee-deep into our allopathic-naturopathic union of treatment, and I’m so grateful for the variety of doctors and resources we have at our fingertips. This is a full-time gig, but we’re not going it alone.
Once again, it’s been difficult for me to find words for this journey, but I keep asking God to give them to me in his timing. I’m a slow processor, an equally slow writer, but there is beauty-in-this-darkness that I so badly want to put into words. I know I’m not the only one walking through hard stuff, and “a timely word—how good that is!” (Proverbs 15:23).
So, God, I ask you again to give me the ability to write this update.
It feels as if we’ve lived a decade since I last emailed. Weighty decisions are made at hyper-speed, plans change often, and time seems to have taken on an alternate identity. I’m amazed at how casually we humans talk in terms of years and decades—and these days I catch my breath every single time someone projects life beyond a year or two. For as long as I can remember, I’ve prayed “Teach me to number my days carefully so that I may develop wisdom in my heart” (Psalm 90:12), but now mere seconds and minutes (not just days) feel indescribably sacred and weighty.
We are so fragile, aren’t we? We subconsciously live as if we’re invincible—till death knocks on our door and reminds us that “all flesh is like grass, and all its glory like a flower of the grass” (1 Peter 1:24).
So I’m keenly, constantly aware of how unspeakably precious today is—not because it’s an end in itself but because I get to do two things in it that will matter for all of eternity:
I get to love God and
I get to love people.
That’s everything. The whole reason I’m here. But it’s so hard to keep this front-and-center in my heart. It’s far too easy for me to get self-absorbed (or just plain ol’ overwhelmed by the hard stuff). This week I found myself grieving the impending loss of my hair and eyebrows/lashes. (Did it once—don’t want to do it again. Especially when I’m not sure I’ll get them back in this life.) It’s so easy for me to fixate on what is seen, on what is temporary, and to forget what is far more real than a full head of hair. What is infinitely weightier and of much more substance than what I see in the mirror is the reality that
Those who look to him are radiant with joy;
their faces will never be ashamed. (Psalm 34:5)
Chemo can’t rob me of the kind of beauty that lasts forever. As I lift my eyes to Jesus, my face radiates with unashamed joy, joy that actually increases with suffering. Age and disease and ultimately death steal our outward beauty, but nothing can take away the kind of beauty that comes when we “look full in his wonderful face.”
Okay, enough about my inner processings. You all keep stunning us with your love and generosity. We’ve had a deep freezer delivered to our doorstep, flowers and grocery giftcards and kid-crafted packages arrive in the mail, kindness upon kindness from our church family in SoCal and our new church fam in Boise, and money given to help summit Medical Bill Mountain. Many of your kids and teens are praying for me, even daily, which brings me to tears every time. Gifts arrive just for J. I wake up to texts and emails of encouragement that help me face another day with hope and courage. And I wonder—how do people walk through terminal illness without an army of love and support like this?
Thank you with all my heart, friends. We. Are. Blessed.
I’ll leave you with a quote that’s meant so much to me over the past few weeks, from Octavius Winslow’s book Christ’s Sympathy for Weary Pilgrims (thank you, Terrie!):
It is I who formed your burden, who carved your cross, and who will strengthen you to bear it. It is I who mixed your cup of grief, and will enable you to drink it with meek submission to your Father’s will. … I have sent all in love! It is I who ordered, arranged, and controlled it all! In every stormy wind, in every darksome night, in every lonesome hour, in every rising fear, the voice of Jesus shall be heard, saying, “Be of good cheer: it is I; be not afraid.”
What a privilege to experience the love of Christ in this particular suffering. I pray you are experiencing him in your own suffering today as well.
With a heart full of love and appreciation,
Colleen
P.S. – One specific prayer request: Cancer of the bones is a beast, and some days pain is a bully. There are times when it’s a bit grueling to simply walk across the room or open a door or turn over in bed. I’ve been so grateful for the “good days” though—and I covet your prayers for joy and strength on the bad days.
P.P.S. – I began writing this update a couple of days ago and then just finished it during Infusion #2. I sat here in my chemo chair with all of you in my heart and, as CoVid dictates no visitors are allowed in the oncology ward, I wanted to thank you for coming with me to chemo today.

August 15, 2021
Friends,
One of the stranger things about a terminal diagnosis is that there’s no one ahead of me on this journey to talk to, ask questions of. There’s no support group or wise seasoned saint to offer me counsel—because (gulp) they’re all dead. Curable cancer is a lonely enough journey, but terminal cancer makes you feel like someone snatched you up and dropped you on the far side of Mars.
But whadya know? Covid is here on Mars too! And it honestly could care less if you’ve got cancer in your bones and chemo pumping through your veins. It’s just happy to keep you company. On the day of my second infusion, I came home to find Eddie with a badly sprained ankle, unable to walk. So we sat there, the gorgeous pair of us, me sick in my recliner, him laid up on the couch with his foot iced and elevated. And he coughed a time or two that day and the next, but we thought nothing of it because we were in survival mode. As soon as Eddie suspected Covid, he quickly quarantined himself till we got his test results back. But by then we’d already efficiently incubated together, so all three of us ended up sick with The Delta. I’m not sure how we would have survived the past two+ weeks if it hadn’t been for so many of our family visiting and helping, and my sister and parents taking daily shifts cooking, cleaning, and shopping for us. We are so grateful!
All three of us have tested Covid-negative this weekend (woot!), but my body’s slow on the rebound. (That or I have a codependent relationship with this recliner.) So in an effort to not lose my sanity with all the sickness and sitting, I’m seizing the opportunity to write to you all instead.
Back to wanting to talk to someone who has lived through this stuff: This morning I woke up remembering my friend Heidi, who passed from metastatic breast cancer in February 2017 and who kept a blog during the early years of her cancer journey. She was a mom of three little girls, and even though she didn’t blog after her diagnosis turned terminal, it was so good to reread her gut-honest take about the harder parts of this journey. And it inspired me to keep writing honestly to you all too, even though I worry that my updates are too heavy and raw and painful to read. I continue to wrestle with how to put this journey into words, but I’m reminded of an F.B. Meyer quote my friend Nancy recently sent me:
The grave may be dark and long, the frost keen and penetrating, but spring will come, and the golden stalk shall wave in the sunshine, wearing its crowning fruit, and men shall thrive on the bread of our experience, the product of our tears and suffering and prayers.
Heidi’s not around for me to ask the tough questions,
How did you make it through the long, dark nights?
How did you handle the layers of grief with your girls?
How did you fight for hope in the face of death?
But because Heidi cared to write through the initial pain and uncertainty of those cancer years, I’m strengthened in a particular way today, feeding on “the bread of her experience.” (How I wish she’d written even more, through the worst months, so I’m determined to keep writing no matter how hard it is.)
In other news, my scalp was being a punk—hurting me and beginning to throw the hair out—so I chopped off my locks again. The deed is done, and while I briefly shed a few tears and I’m not particularly happy with my reflection in the mirror, I’m thankful I don’t have alien ears or a cone head or worse.
There is always, always something to be thankful for—no matter how deep and dark the pit. I just got lots of extra time with my boys because we were trapped at home together for over two weeks. Also, we’re in a house not an apartment this time around(!!), I have a little pad of patio where I can sit and watch birds in my backyard, and we have a kitchen stocked with good food (while too many around the world don’t even know where their next meal is going to come from). We have been loved on by you all in ways that STUN us (and leave us weeks behind in thank-yous!). Even though the journey can be inherently lonely and isolating, you have not failed to make us feel constantly and beautifully surrounded by your love.
And more than all these things (which are already extraordinary), I have this Book full of hope and precious promises, and this Savior who tells me that he is my portion and my cup of blessing and my very great reward. And so if he chooses to take from me my health and hair and hope of watching my son grow up and my desire to live a long life full of ministry, he wants me to know to the marrow of my bones that “I have no good thing apart from him.” He alone must be enough for me. He alone must have my heart (or the pain and the grief will consume me).
I should quickly add: The fact that I’m processing the realities of a terminal diagnosis does not mean I’ve given up hope! I’m still fighting with every fiber of my strong-willed being to stay here as long as I can, to be a wife and mom and daughter and sister and friend for as many days as God will give me. I work crazy-hard every day to eat well, carry out a complex health protocol, exercise, and jump through all the medical hoops. I’m as stubborn as I am surrendered, so don’t worry—I’m not going easily.
Thanks for walking with us, friends. I know each of you is also processing this journey of grief in your own ways, and it’s heavy and hard. I don’t take it for granted that you still want to walk with us for the long haul. We love you dearly and thank our God for you,
Colleen (for Eddie too)

August 30, 2021
Hello, dear friends!
Today was supposed to be Chemo Round 4, but due to some physical complications (I’m all kinds of special, people), my medical team decided to give my body a few extra days to get stronger. I’ll be back in The Chair on Thursday instead. Jeremy started school today, so I find myself with time to tackle some of the tasks on my to-do list—from the comfort of my trusty recliner. Ha!
But first, an update.
After a week of navigating more of chemo’s rigorous side effects and layers of physical pain, getting a molar extracted due to an infection in my gums, shaving my head down to the nubs, missing Jeremy’s back-to-school activities and teacher meeting, and postponing our anniversary dinner because I was too sick to get out—there’s a not-so-sneaky temptation to despair, to nurse longings for “normalcy” and relief, or to kick into sheer survival mode. But at the beginning of this new week, I’m looking over my shoulder and I can so clearly see that a strong and gentle king saw me in my weepy heap of weariness, pushed through the masses to get to me, took my hand, drew me close, and slowly danced with me through the week, speaking words of hope and promise and goodness to me. All week long he has been with me. All week long he has had merciful words to sing over me.
On Saturday he sang Psalm 55:16 over me, reminding me that he loves to save his children. It’s what he does. “How he will save me I cannot guess; but he will do it, I know” (Spurgeon). My heart grew ten times bigger to remember that he will not give me over to despair and darkness and a grievous end. That’s not what he does. Even though cancer most likely will take me, he will rescue me from this affliction in his perfect way, and it will mean life and joy and freedom for many others, not just me.
Midweek he was singing over me truths from the gospels as I meditated on Jesus’ ministry on earth, specifically the throngs who came from miles around to touch him and be healed. These were people who had suffered horrifically for years and even decades, some with terminal illness, some with incurable disease, some with pain that kept them up every night, some with handicaps that brought about their destitution. But when they heard about The Miraculous Healing Man, they pushed through every pain and limitation to get to him, desperate as they were for relief and wholeness and normalcy, for freedom from social stigmas, for the hope of becoming a functioning member of their family and community again.
And Jesus healed them. En masse. He had compassion on them.
Which begs the question: Is this Jesus who healed the multitudes two thousand years ago, the same Jesus who may not choose to heal me, his beloved daughter? Will the Jesus who showed compassion to the crowds allow a young boy to watch his mom slowly waste away—then grow up without her? Allow a husband to lose his wife and suddenly find himself a single dad?
Even while Jesus was showing the world what his kingdom would look like—healing! restoration! power over dark forces! forgiveness of sins!—he was promising his followers that they would suffer greatly. That would be the way the kingdom would fully come—through faith-filled, joyful, suffering saints. It wasn’t comfort and security and ease he was selling.
So he came in this beautiful kind of juxtaposition: to both introduce us to his breathtakingly good kingdom by mending broken people, and to be the suffering servant, knowing agony in all of its layers and grief in all of its stages—so that we would know how to suffer in his footsteps, and the world would look at us and marvel, “They have more joy and more peace and more purpose in their suffering than I have on my best day of ease and security. What’s their secret?!” And more people would be forgiven and freed and swallowed up in joy, and the kingdom would grow and grow and grow until one day King Jesus brings it in all of its fullness, and we see
…a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. I also saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared like a bride adorned for her husband.
Then I heard a loud voice from the throne: Look, God’s dwelling is with humanity, and he will live with them. They will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them and will be their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; grief, crying, and pain will be no more, because the previous things have passed away.
Then the one seated on the throne said, “Look, I am making everything new.” (Revelation 21:1-5)
Wouldn’t you just love to opt out of the suffering and skip to the good stuff of Revelation 21? I’m constantly and keenly aware of how “soft” I am. I think of the many biographies I’ve read of saints past, who suffered unthinkable losses and crosses (and didn’t whine but counted it a joy and privilege). I think of our brothers and sisters around the world today who are choosing to remain in hostile places, risking life and limb and loved ones in order to share the love of Jesus with people who have never heard his name. And I look at my insidious bent toward first-world comforts and securities and expectations, and I cry out to God to increase my capacity to suffer well, with more and more joy, and to toughen me up while keeping me tender, and to help me relinquish the treasures I have on this earth (that oh-so-quickly become idols in my heart).
I’m so grateful for God’s gentleness with me. He is happy to be with me in my weakness, and he will finish the good work he started in me. He is patiently teaching me how to look death in the face and say,
Time, how short!
Death, how brief!
Eternity, how long!
Immortality, how endless!*
And so today, because of his kindness, I have a new supply of strength and courage and hope so I can take up this cross, deny myself, and follow him down a path I never would have chosen—but a path that ultimately leads to perfect bliss.
And oh, friends, there are so many mercies along this way, including the ones that come through you. Again we had all manner of goodness arrive at our doorstep and in our mailbox and inboxes and Venmo accounts this last week. And the way you pray for us…! It is a gift beyond all others. We could not face these days without you: we continually feel so deeply loved, so strengthened, so cheered on for this journey.
I am on the verge of tears as I think of you all and the incomparable gift you are to me. To all three of us. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Colleen
P.S. – I have a tangible prayer request for you prayer warriors: Chemo makes it so difficult for me to string words together. I’m already a painfully slow writer, but “chemo brain” makes me feel like a turtle in wet cement. Mercy. But here’s the deal: Moments after I heard how extensive my cancer was back in the spring, I heard just as clearly from the Spirit that I needed to write–that one of the reasons he was entrusting this suffering to me was so that I could encourage others through words. I’ve been gunshy of traditionally publishing a book (wanting to make sure I was old and wise before I put something into permanent print), but it appears that now is the fullness of time. So I’ve been praying for weeks that God would supernaturally give me the right words, increase my sloggy brain’s capacity to think clearly, and allow me to write something that will deeply care for others. I appreciate your prayers on my behalf as I work out of great weakness and urgency. Thank you, friends!
*C.H. Spurgeon (of course).

September 19, 2021
Hello, dear friends!

Today has been a beautiful one. I may be 45 years old, but this will be my very first time experiencing Fall, and I’m a little bit giddy. (I’ve only ever known the four seasons to be Summer, Summer the Sequel, Fallspringish, and Summer’s Revenge.) Already trees are beginning to change color, cooler temperatures are blowing in, and this afternoon the sky was filled with puffy white clouds after a stormy gray morning.

Okay, but you didn’t open this email for a weather report, so in other news….

We’re now four chemo infusions down, eight to go. At the end of these twelve rounds, I’ll take a break and hopefully return to Utah for a two-week clean-up at the holistic clinic that worked such wonders for my body in June. I also continue to meet virtually with a naturopathic oncologist in Vancouver and my beloved integrative medical doctor in Newport Beach (who has walked me through so many health issues and is a gift beyond words). I’m so grateful to be using a variety of methods to attack this aggressive cancer and to strengthen my body.

Have I already mentioned that I had a full-body bone scan last December, and not a smidge of cancer was detected? Just a few months later, it was all over my bones and lymph nodes. Isn’t that crazy? This truly is a wildfire cancer we’re dealing with, which is why we’re trying to address it from every possible angle. Honestly, if this were a less aggressive cancer, I’d probably skip chemo altogether and use natural measures alone. I. Hate. Chemo. I’m already feeling super beat up and weary, but I realize that this is an effective tool that is keeping the cancer from even more quickly overtaking my body, and for that I’m grateful—and I can gird up my loins for another round tomorrow.

(On that note, my neutrophils and WBC levels were low this last week, so I’m praying they’ve bounced back so I can press on with tomorrow’s Round 5. I’m continually grateful for a doctor who cares deeply about my quality of life. This past week he reduced one of my drugs by 10% [I’ve already been at an 80% dose] so I wouldn’t be as severely nauseated and exhausted. It was a much better week overall, and today I made it to the very end of our church service and even had a little energy for some household chores when I got home. So thankful!)

~ ~ ~

Yesterday was a “grieving day,” and the tears flowed silently but freely over a lot of little things that felt weighty and precious and therefore painful. And yet, even as the tears were streaming down my face, I sensed Jesus so close to me, sensed his heart bursting with longing to bring me home to himself. He is an eager bridegroom who adores his bride, and I have sensed him saying again and again, “I love you.” And out of a heart that hurts to leave here too soon but longs to finally see him face to face, I say back to him, “I love you too.” I have no idea when he will call me home, but I know that all he does is out of his infinitely perfect love.

~ ~ ~

On the heels of a grieving day, I can quickly put things back into perspective when I read about what my brothers and sisters around the world are facing: they’re being imprisoned, fleeing for their lives, losing their loved ones—because they believe in Jesus. What I’m experiencing is a form of true suffering, yes, but tonight I’m sipping on a hot cup of herbal tea and writing to you from the comfort of a recliner, and not wondering if the enemy will pound down our door and take my husband off to prison. This week I’ve prayed through tears for Ahmad, Morteza, Ayoob, Hamid, and their families as they have suffered such intense persecution in Algeria and Iran. I cannot imagine their reality, and it helps to keep my own from becoming all-consuming (or an excuse for self-pity).

~ ~ ~

One last note: If you’d like to see pictures of our journey, I’m trying to post on Instagram every week or two (colleen.chao).

I love you friends. So much. You are a gift beyond words.

Colleen

P.S. – A couple of months back, one of my besties suggested I record a list of the songs that are ministering most deeply to me right now. I loved the idea—and finally got around to it (and limited myself to just 12!). I’m so grateful for these artists who have put the deepest parts of my soul to song and ushered me into the presence of Jesus on even the darkest days of this journey:

1. My Portion (Shane & Shane)
2. Abide (Aaron Williams on The Worship Initiative)
3. What a Beautiful Name (Hillsong Worship)
4. It’s Always Been You (Phil Wickham)
5. Psalm 90/Satisfy Us with Your Love (Shane & Shane)
6. The Garden (Kari Jobe)
7. Dawn (Rebecca St. James)
8. My Soul Waits (Bethany Barnard)
9. King of Kings (Hillsong Worship)
10. When We See Your Face (Sovereign Grace Music)
11. Song in the Night (Shane & Shane)
12. I Will Sing (Kari Jobe)

October 11, 2021
Hello, sweet friends—

I’m writing to you, not from my recliner or chemo chair this time, but from Indianapolis, Indiana. (!!) I kicked off my Bucket List this weekend by attending the Revive Our Hearts women’s conference, thanks to my amazing hubby and my precious friend Nancy Wolgemuth. I’ve been wanting to get to an ROH event for years now—and Eddie and I continue to be resolved to LIVE FULLY every day (and do things that might even take a toll on me physically but are life-giving emotionally and spiritually). Nancy and the entire ROH Team took such beautiful care of me and showed me every possible kindness, and loved on me till my heart was bursting. As if that weren’t enough, Shane and Shane led worship all weekend and one amazing speaker after another brought messages that cared deeply for my soul.

Gift upon gift.

And while I’ve been gone, one of Eddie’s good friends flew in for a guys’ weekend, and my parents came over for game night, and my brother David and sis-in-law Heather and kids came to visit, so Jeremy and Eddie have been well loved and encouraged too. My heart is full.

Isn’t it true that no matter how much we give God, he always out-gives us? Last week felt almost unbearable to our family, with one difficulty stacked upon another, till I was crying out to God for mercy and relief. Little did I know all the goodness he had stored up for me, for us, this weekend. And while his goodness doesn’t always show up in such tangible ways, he is storing it up for us nonetheless, and the wealth waiting for us on the other side is going to make even the best gifts here look pale and paltry.

“How great is your goodness, which you have stored up for those who fear you. In the presence of everyone you have acted for those who take refuge in you.” Psalm 31:19

~ ~ ~

What I didn’t know when we booked my flight a few weeks ago was that a short film ROH made of our family would debut at the conference. The film crew did an absolutely beautiful job of capturing the heart of our story, and while I was way out of my comfort zone in some ways—exposing such vulnerable and tender places of our lives on camera in my less-than-attractive state and with a bad case of chemo brain, ha!—we’re convinced that the story God has written for us is one that needs to be shared. I’m constantly aware that cancer doesn’t have a corner on the market of suffering. There are so many others who need words of hope and comfort too. (2 Corinthians 1:4)

We gave Jeremy the opportunity to “opt out” of the film (we didn’t want to force him to share just because we were compelled to), but after some thought he said that while it was out of his comfort zone too, he wanted to help other kids who are suffering in similar ways.

So here is our family’s “sacrifice of praise” to a good God who writes unexpected and often painful but always beautiful stories: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jPna0-rljE0.

Welp, I’m functioning on 2.5 hours of sleep and my words are feeling a little janky to me right now (ha!), so I’ll save a newsier, more detailed cancer update for later.

Love you so much, my friends. More than you know.

Colleen

P.S. – I wrote this yesterday, so I’m happily back home with my boys now. Chemo Round #7 happened bright and early this morning. My white blood count (WBC) was so low that my doctor once again reduced my Taxol dose a smidge. I need that WBC to improve so we can continue next week! But I’m soooo grateful: almost all of my other troublesome bloodwork issues (especially super-cranky liver levels) have greatly improved! Also, a recent PET scan shows that the chemo is doing its job and the cancer is being held at bay for the moment. We are incredibly thankful for each day of good news.

P.P.S. – Twelve years ago tonight, under a full moon in a beautiful park, Eddie asked me to be his girlfriend. I walked on clouds that night. We were blissfully unaware of what these years together would require of us, but I love this man more today than I did back then. Babe, you are the best man I know.

October 18, 2021
It’s a strange thing—writing of “suffering” in our first-world American context. What really qualifies as suffering? In your own life, what would you categorize as merely a “difficulty” and what would you consider full-blown suffering?

I feel like I know so little of suffering when I think of people like Helen Roseveare, Madame Guyon, and Olaudah Equiano—or when I hear about modern-day victims of persecution, trafficking, and torture. I’m tempted to despair over my “softness.” So when people tell me they’re amazed at how I’m handling stage 4 cancer, I’m deeply encouraged, but I also squirm a little at the compliment. I know myself far too well to be impressed with ME. I’m constantly, keenly aware that GOD is sustaining me, HE is pouring out his Spirit on me (in equal measure to the pain he’s inflicted), HE has been working on me little by little for many, many years.

Last night I lay in bed thinking back on my early to mid 30s when I thought I might end up in an asylum, I felt so crazy with anxiety and depression. I recalled the many times I’ve curled up in the fetal position and wept and wailed before God, “I can’t do this one more day!”—through long years of singleness; through Jeremy’s worst years of illness when he struggled to breathe at night or he lay limp in my arms with unrelenting fever and pain; through my own twelve years of chronic pain and illness….

And here’s the thing about suffering (at least in my own limited experience): none of us are good at it. None of us have the capacity to suffer well with hope and joy. But the secret to slowly becoming a hope-filled, joyful sufferer has been shockingly simple: I go to God. Again and again and again.

I go to him when I’m angry at his will for me.
I go to him in the middle of the night when grief threatens to undo me.
I go to him when I’m weary to the bone, or when I’m throwing myself an epic pity party.

And by “going to him” I mean I turn my thoughts to him and tell him exactly what I’m feeling, all the nitty gritty gory details. I “pour out my heart like water in the Lord’s presence” (Lamentations 2:19)—and with the smallest mustard seed of faith, I believe that he’s listening to me and that he will be able to do something about my suffering (Isaiah 64:4).

That rhythmic act of going to him softens my heart to listen to him, to hear his voice, to end my self-absorbed monologue and begin a beautiful dialogue with him.

And here’s what I’ve become increasingly convinced of through this process over decades now: I cannot hear from him or dialogue with him (and thus cannot suffer well) apart from his Word. Through the pages of Scripture he speaks exactly what my heart needs to hear. He reveals himself (sometimes in ways I don’t immediately recognize), and those revelations change everything—my thoughts and desires and perspective and all. And herein lies one of the most sacred gifts of suffering: the sufferer has a unique capacity to experience God through his Word in ways that cannot be experienced through days of comfort and ease. Spurgeon put it this way:
Prosperity is a painted window that shuts out much of God’s clear light. Only when the blue, crimson, and gold tinge is removed will the glass be restored to transparency. Adversity takes away the tinge, the color, and the dimness, and then we see our God. In the absence of other goods, the good God is better seen.*

And Robert Hawker put it this way:
Your words are sweet and perfect for my weary soul, and my sense of nothingness makes your fullness even more precious.**

I know I sound like a broken record, but I’ll sing this song to my last day: in the hands of a good God, suffering is a gift. It’s the “cords of kindness and ropes of love” that bind us fast to Jesus (Hosea 11:4). It’s the acetone and rag that clean the painted window blocking our view of him. And there is nothing on earth more precious than seeing and knowing and loving Jesus more through our suffering (Philippians 3:10). Slowly, awkwardly, over time, our joy and hope and peace grow deep and wide because we are pressed into his presence, into his Love, and it ruins us for all other substitute comforts.

Over the past several months our family has been hard pressed on every side, with cancer being only one of many stressors and heartaches. (Jeremiah Burroughs so aptly wrote, “It is very rarely that one affliction comes alone; commonly, afflictions are not single things, but they come one upon the neck of another.”*** Mm-hmm. Get it, Jeremiah.) Yesterday I was both sad and angry over the unrelenting hardships, and I felt weak, desperately needy—but I went to God again and again throughout the day and he spoke to my hurting heart and revealed his nearness and goodness for the millionth time.

So from one weak person to another, here is my strong encouragement, especially if you feel like today’s sufferings are far beyond your capacity: Keep going to God. Tell him everything you’re feeling, raw and unedited. He can take it. Pray through Psalm 40 or Isaiah 35 or Lamentations 3. Trust that he never belittles us for our kindergarten capacity to suffer (or for our struggle to get to the place where we can “consider it pure joy when we face trials of many kinds”). He never says, “Well, Susie could handle this so much better than you!” On the contrary, he is compassionate and tender and infinitely forbearing, happy to be with you and me right where we’re at today—and happy to continue his good work of making us more and more like his Son.

~ ~ ~

On a totally different and more technical note, today my WBC was high enough to continue chemo (praise God! Thank you all for praying!), so I got to tackle Round 8. Four more rounds of Paclitaxel and then I’ll continue with only my monoclonal antibody infusions, herceptin and perjeta. These still take a toll on my body, but my hair will begin to grow back (again, ha!) and the side effects should be lessened overall. :)))

I’m hoping to return to the Utah clinic after the holidays to get “cleaned up” from these months of chemo. We’re not yet sure what we’ll do after that. With my particular prognosis, the cancer is so aggressive that it eventually figures out a pathway around the chemo/antibodies and continues spreading, and then we form a huddle with our allopathic-naturopathic medical team and ask God for great wisdom and take the next step.

~ ~ ~

As always, friends, thank you thank you thank you for your encouragement, generosity, kindness, prayers, and love. As I continue “going to God,” he smiles big and says, “Do you see who I’ve put around you to love you through this? You are not alone.”

Thank you for being our friends, for loving all three of us so beautifully even in the midst of your own sufferings. We are forever grateful—

Colleen

*C.H. Spurgeon. Beside Still Waters.
**Robert Hawker. Piercing Heaven. Page 48.
***Jeremiah Burroughs. The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment. Page 15.

November 8, 2021
Do you remember the Ukrainian tale of The Mitten? While collecting firewood in the dead of winter, a boy unknowingly drops his warm woolen mitten in the middle of a snowy forest. Soon, a small mouse discovers it and burrows into it, taking shelter from the biting cold. Not long after, a frog happens upon the mitten, and he squeezes in beside the mouse. Then, in frigid succession, an owl, a rabbit, a fox, a big gray wolf, a wild boar, and a bear discover the mitten and squeeze themselves in as well. Finally, a little old cricket with creaky aching legs happens upon the mitten and says to herself, “Now that looks like a nice warm place. I’ll just hop over and see if I can squeeze in, too!”

“But ah me, that was all that was needed to finish off the poor old mitten. The cricket had no more than put her first scratchy foot inside when, with a rip and a snap, the stitches came apart, the old leather cracked, and the soft red lining split in half, popping all the animals into the snow!” (from my favorite version of this tale, written by Alvin Tresselt.)

For the past six months since my diagnosis, there have been weeks on end when God has given us a supernatural mitten of seemingly endless capacity to hold rabbits and owls and foxes and wolves and bears, to stretch and flex and expand in ways that truly seem miraculous. But then, every month or two, along comes Little Old Cricket Week, and, with a rip and a snap, the stitches come apart and the lining splits in half and everything comes spilling out. On those weeks, I’m overwhelmed by the myriad sorrows and stresses and tasks of this journey—“animals” that just moments before I was able to accommodate with grace and joy. But the ripping and the splitting is a good and necessary part of this process because it reminds me of how fragile I am apart from God holding me together. If I perpetually bore up under maximum capacity with joyful strength, I’d begin to think there was something inherently amazing about me. Instead, on Little Old Cricket Week, I see clearly again how extraordinary it is that God is sustaining me (and my boys) through what is utterly impossible to bear up under ourselves. On my own, I am tragically weak and limited, constantly living at the edges of my undoing. But it’s at those very edges where I experience the power of God in and through me.

(It’s still so crazy-amazing to me how suffering can convince us that God is both good and powerful.)

~ ~ ~

Four years ago yesterday, November 7, 2017, was the day I received my first cancer diagnosis (invasive ductal carcinoma, stage 2B). Nearly every aspect of our life has changed since we sat in my doctor’s office that afternoon and heard the news. And yet, what God first spoke to me back then is still true now: Cancer has been a gift. It has been the key to unlocking deeper, more breathtaking places in Christ; it has been the sacred invitation into others’ suffering; it has been the way to experience more freedom from Self; it has been the secret to seeing a little more clearly through the shadows of this present world into the substance of eternity.

God, thank you for this weighty, terrifying, beautiful gift. You are so good.

~ ~ ~

I’m just twenty minutes from wrapping up my Monday infusion, and it’s been a sweet morning with my friends here at St. Luke’s. (I love my team of nurses and doctors!) Today is Round 12, which means it’s my final weekly dose of Taxol (at least for the time being), but I’ll continue with the Herceptin and Perjeta drugs every three weeks—while also beginning hormone therapy. This therapy will be two-fold: it will force me into menopause and then block the estrogen that’s driving the cancer growth. (I did this last time too so it’s nothing new.) Again, my doctor is all about quality of life to the end. He knows I did not tolerate hormone therapy the first time around, so he’s resolved to make this as tolerable as possible this time around. However, if I absolutely cannot tolerate it, Eddie and I will then need to make some tough decisions about whether or not to continue with Taxol. For now, I’m so grateful at the prospect of more hair and a little less sickness and exhaustion.

~ ~ ~

Last thing: I recently asked Eddie if he would take over a future update and give you all a break from hearing from ME and MY perspective. (Ha!) You need to hear from him! This hubby of mine is one heck of an extraordinary man. What he endures on the daily with tenacity and humility is such a testimony to God’s work in his life (and proof that I am one spoiled woman). One of the ways I feel most loved right now is when people love my husband well—so thank you to those of you who continue to reach out and support Eddie. It means the world to me.

~ ~ ~

Friends, so much of the joy and strength and endurance we’re experiencing as a family (even the grace to make it through the Little Old Cricket Weeks)—as well as the fruitfulness that’s coming from our suffering—are the result of your prayers. God is saying a huge “yes!” to what you’re asking him on our behalf, and I only wish I had something more meaningful to say than just “thank you.” You seriously are “the excellent ones in whom is all our delight” (Psalm 16:3).

We love you so!

Colleen (for Eddie too)

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