ARTICLES BY COLLEEN CHAO

Category: Chronic illness

Beauty

The good news about bad news

In the past decade, going to the doctor has felt a bit like guzzling apple cider vinegar while walking barefoot on hot coals. Not exactly my idea of fun. Thursday’s appointment was no exception—bad news again. Not necessarily cancer, but a complicated cocktail of issues my doctor believes first set my cancer into motion. And the complicated solutions are (once again) breathtakingly expensive, time-consuming, and don’t come with any guarantees. As I began to recover from the firehose of new test results, I sensed God with me in a special way. “I know you’re not surprised by this,” I quietly told him. “I know you have everything I need for this.” But I’m sure you know as well as I do that trusting God doesn’t mean skirting around the tough emotions that surface on dark days. So even while I was full of faith, I also felt deeply discouraged—sad that I have a broken body, that I can’t seem to string together three weeks of good health. My heart was heavy. I reached for my Bible, opened to the Psalms, and read two verses (just two)—before it struck me with new force that while my body is a bad news factory, this Book is nothing but good news. The best news. And when I sit in it—when I linger in these precious Pages—my heart is grown strong with hope. In this world, my body might continue to be weak; but in his Word, my spirit is a triathlete. The Apostle Paul put it this way: So we do not give up. Even though our outer person is being destroyed, our inner person is being renewed day by day. (2 Corinthians 4:16) Okay, and get this: God’s good news DOESN’T COST A THING. It’s free, free, free. Can we just steep in the beauty of this for a moment? The best of doctors and clinicians and institutions have, in essence, said to me, “We’re not entirely sure what’s going wrong in your body, and we’re even less sure of whether or not we can cure you. But let’s give it our best shot.” This then sets into motion The Medical Bill Marathon, a financial feat so grueling it could send a strong man into the fetal position in two seconds flat. But in striking contrast, God himself perfectly diagnosed our (infinitely bigger) problem, then offered us a 100%-guaranteed cure that cost him everything and us nothing. The Perfect Physician was also the Cure, and the Cure was also the Generous Bill-payer. This is the best news in the history of the world. Every time I open my Bible, every time I recall a promise from these Pages, good news wins. So let the bad news come—it will soon be buried with my bones anyway (whether in one year or fifty). But good news gains momentum. Like the beautiful picture painted in Ezekiel 47, God’s goodness starts as a gentle trickle in our life, but it won’t stop till it’s a rushing river that flows deep and wide, bringing life to everything it touches. Dear one, when we make a habit of looking for that goodness—which requires us to lift our eyes from our singleness, sickness, infertility, divorce, empty bank account, lost loved one, wounded relationship—we begin to understand that bad news on this side of eternity is sort of like stubbing your toe on the way to collect your billion-dollar inheritance. Okay, so I stubbed my toe again this past week. But I’m sitting here wealthy beyond compare, spoiled by a Rich and Wonderful Daddy, who loves me beyond anything I will ever deserve. He’s taking my unwanted test results and physical limitations and deep disappointments and working so much good in my life, I don’t know what to do with it all. Seriously. It’s crazy. Susan Huntington once wrote, “Afflictions are sent for our profit, and if we do not profit by them, the fault is entirely our own.” I’ve missed out on some amazing blessings along the way because I was so eager to avoid suffering. But whenever I’ve wrapped my arms around the hardships, when I’ve viewed them as a means of experiencing more of Christ—the blessings flow like a rushing river. What bad news have you heard recently, dear one? What feels like an insurmountable discouragement to you today? That is exactly where God wants to bring you so much good, it will take your breath away.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao March 31, 2019

Cancer

The gift of cancer

Four months ago I found a lump in my breast. And the Spirit clearly said, “This lump is a gift.” ~ ~ ~ This summer was the first time in a decade that I felt well. I started sleeping, I had energy, the aches and pains of chronic illness were minimal. On top of that, my son’s health had improved enough for us to experience the edges of “normalcy.” My husband and I looked at each other and whispered with relief, “We’re not in crisis mode anymore.” So on that mid-summer morning with a threatening lump at my fingertips, I wondered through frightened tears, What if this is cancer? After all we have been through, what if we’re about to face our biggest health crisis yet? God wouldn’t do that, would he? ~ ~ ~ We began a long and complicated testing process. Some days I had all the peace in the world—miraculous calm and confidence in God’s goodness. Other days I couldn’t loosen fear’s vise-grip on my heart. Don’t make me walk this, Lord, I begged him. And then just as quickly: But if this is where You are going, I want to go with You. I don’t want to miss out on what You’re doing. Even in the scariest moments, holding my breath for that decisive phone call, I knew he was with me. And as I hid myself in him during those waiting weeks, he confirmed again and again, “This lump is a gift.” What kind of gift, I didn’t yet know. I hoped for the best, but readied my heart for the worst. Because what if the worst was the gift? ~ ~ ~ I’ve lost several dear ones to cancer in recent years. Two to breast cancer. I’ve watched the slow dying process and know that the worst can be cruel. I don’t want to suffer. I don’t want to lose my breasts and my hair, prematurely age, and suffer more aches and pains. What comes naturally to me is the Art of Preservation. I want to save my life, not lose it. But looking back at 41 years of life, filled with various trials that have preceded this one, I can say with confidence: It’s always been in the losing—the surrendering—that I have found Life. ~ ~ ~ It would be easy to say, “Nothing prepares you for a cancer diagnosis”—but it wouldn’t be true. God has been preparing me for the past 19 months. In April 2015, I resolved to address some areas of emotional immaturity in my life (namely, how to maintain my joyful identity in the midst of relational conflict), and I began working tirelessly through Life Model Works’ amazing resources. I saw grace and growth like never before. Then, at the beginning of this year, I had a renewed appetite to read books about people who have suffered with joy and courage. I devoured one biography after another—I couldn’t get enough. On top of that, God had me praying through the Psalms, which allowed me to tread every square inch of my life in truth. My Abba and I, we covered so much territory together between March and July. I experienced the Spirit’s power as never before, and was keenly aware of his purposes in my life. So when I sat in my doctor’s office on a Tuesday afternoon early this month, I was ready for the diagnosis: Cancer. ~ ~ ~ It is in our human nature to be constantly surprised by life’s hardships. To ask “why me?” But Christ modeled a life of joyful suffering—and then called us to follow in his footsteps. Christ came to give his life as a ransom for many. He was a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief. But!—for the joy set before him he endured the worst suffering the world has ever known. My diagnosis is not the worst suffering I can imagine. Far from it. (I could quickly recite for you a list of far worse scenarios!) But still it feels like too much in some moments. On the darker days, my heart has echoed the Psalmist’s: “All Your waves and breakers have swept over me.” A decade of numerous intense trials has not earned us a season of ease and pleasure. Instead, the storm rages on. But as C.H. Spurgeon said, “I have learned to kiss the wave that dashes me against the Rock of Ages.” These forcible waves, they carry me to the One who says, “Peace. Be still.” ~ ~ ~ Many of our friends have asked us how our six-year-old son, Jeremy, is doing with all of this. To state the obvious, it’s hard. We decided early on in the testing process that we’d share frankly with him—but we’d do it in such a way that hopefully modeled joy and trust in Jesus. We want him to learn how to navigate suffering with an enormous view of God. To know the way back to peace from intense negative emotions. The night we received my official diagnosis, Jeremy had tears and hugged me tight. I locked eyes with him and said, “This is hard, isn’t it, Bud? It’s not good news. But God is with us, and He turns everything for our good. Everything. So we don’t need to fear. And God is going to use this in your life in amazing ways.” Jeremy paused, then asked us to read the story of The Fiery Furnace. My husband Eddie read the account in Daniel 3, which includes Nebuchadnezzar gasping, ‘Did we not cast three men bound into the fire? But I see four men unbound, walking in the midst of the fire, and they are not hurt; and the appearance of the fourth is like a son of the gods.” Eddie closed the Bible and after another pause, Jeremy said, “There are four of us in this family.” God doesn’t waste suffering even on a six-year-old. He’s growing a tender heart strong through the uncertainty. He’s teaching joyful courage to a little man who may need it in his

Colleen Elisabeth Chao November 24, 2017

Bible study

Bartimaeus

He was a blind man. A beggar. He lived long before Braille and social welfare, so he was probably far more desperate than the homeless man who holds a cardboard sign outside your car window today. He begged in order to eat. He scrounged to survive. But then one day there was a stir on the street, and the blind man inquired as to the cause. “Jesus is passing by” came the answer. And the man knew that after a lifetime of helplessness, this was his one chance at hope. His was a cry that came from the marrow of his soul: “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” And because the crowd could not understand what it was like to live in darkness and destitution, they harshly hushed him. But a rebuke could not silence his desperate hope. So he called out more loudly, Son of David, have mercy on me! And to the astonishment of the hushers, Jesus invited the blind man to come near. Not only that, but he asked him, “What do you want me to do for you?” Blind man, begging man, what do you want the God of the universe to do for you? He dared to ask for a miracle. He wanted to see. Sight would mean he could live, really truly live. No more begging. No more groping about in the dark. And at the word of Him who first said, “Let there be light,” the man’s eyes were illumined and the first thing he must have seen was Jesus. And he praised Him and the crowd praised Him and the story of Bartimaeus has been told for 2,000 years now. ~.~ ~.~ ~.~ I have been Bartimaeus. You too, dear one? Do you recognize his desperation, his cry for mercy, the insensitive crowd? Do you also have limitations that make you feel like an outsider? I don’t have a permanent handicap and have never experienced true poverty. But I have known what it is to have socially awkward limitations. Due to years of insomnia, panic attacks, and depression, I have to guard my evenings, sleeping habits, and schedule. And because of a variety of chronic illnesses my son and I struggle with, even catching a simple cold can mean weeks (or months) of health complications for us. I’ve had to fight shame over admitting, “Evenings are difficult for me so we’ll need to leave early,” and “We’re sick…again.” Sometimes it can feel like a handicap of sorts, a relationship-buster, a crowd-upsetter. Not everyone can understand, and I don’t blame them. (I wouldn’t get it either if I weren’t walking in these shoes.) But these weaknesses have positioned me to cry out to Jesus. He is not ashamed of or impatient with my frailties. Weakness is where He meets me. Weakness is where He changes me. If I had no needs, no disabilities, I would miss out on His miracles. I would miss out on Him. There He stands, ready to show Himself to me, to act on behalf of me as I wait for Him (Isaiah 64:4). Where I am physically, emotionally, and spiritually needy—where I cry out for His mercy—that’s where I see Him working most powerfully in me. At times I am almost breathless at His goodness to me, a beggar. But before I sound even remotely like a victim, let me quickly confess…. I have been the crowd too. Resentful of another’s weakness. Short on grace for their shortcomings. Eager to hush their hurts. Here we go again…. Get over it already! Why can’t you trust God with this? Truth is, sometimes we don’t like each other in our desperation. Not many of us are the best versions of ourselves when we are needy. Our infirmities can keep us from fulfilling each other’s wishes and wants, leading to hurt and frustration. But look at Jesus’ tender response to a man of frailty, and let it be our model. The impatient ones who cannot accept your limitations? Be tender toward them. The loved one who isn’t handling her sufferings well? Be tender toward her. Perhaps your tenderness to their weakness will be the healing touch of Jesus in their life. So don’t take their reactions personally. This is, after all, not about us. This is about Him. He is doing something breathtaking behind the scenes and we are blind to it till He shines His light and says, “See! Look what I have been doing all along!” Are you longing to be married, dear one? Are you barren? Sick? In a bad marriage? Burdened till you feel you might break? Does this holiday season cause you to feel like a social misfit? Wait for God, dear one. Bartimaeus was blind and begging for years before Jesus walked by, but God had a miracle in mind all along—a miracle that would cause both the blind and the begrudging to praise Him. ~.~ ~.~ ~.~ Read the biblical account here and here.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao November 27, 2016

brown toned image of a woman looking through a window and contemplating

Chronic illness

The gift of illness

I’m not in a wheelchair. I’m not on chemo. I’ve ended up in the hospital only two times, for brief outpatient visits. To see me, you’d assume I’m the picture of perfect health. But underneath this strong exterior lies deep weakness. I’ve been given the gift of chronic illness. And while I would love to reject such a gift, it has been my invitation into a thousand moments of grace—to feel where I was once numb, see where I was once blind, hear where I was once deaf. It’s been my merciful undoing and my gracious remaking. You see, in my own strength, pain-free and healthy, I am Pride and Self-sufficiency and The Greatest People Pleaser. But here, in the throes of weakness, I am forced into postures of humility and dependency upon God. This brokenness has surfaced every cranky, weary, impatient, mean, insecure, fearful, shortsighted aspect of my character. So I cry out to Him. And I find Him. Why Healing Isn’t Everything Over the course of these seven years of illness, I’ve been prayed for and prayed over by countless people. I’ve seen medical doctors and homeopathic specialists. I’ve changed the way I eat and exercise…multiple times. I’ve made progress and then I’ve regressed—taken five steps forward and four steps back. Because sometimes God says “no” or “not yet” or “only in part” so that we learn how to sit in silence a little longer, till our heart is on a first-name basis with Surrender and we go deeper with Jesus. These aches and pains and frailties, they are a telescope to see distant glory up close. The God of the Universe is near to the brokenhearted and He lifts up those who are bowed down. And that nearness is my good. He says, “I see. I hear. I care. And I am with you. I have everything you need for this.” Too Much and Not Enough In every season of our lives, there comes a time when we feel that God has given us “too much” and we’re “not enough.” We look at our circumstances and then at our resources—and we despair. Why do You push me so far past my limits, Lord? When I was young and healthy and had the world on a string, I envisioned a life of monumental and celebrated ministry. But on this side of weakness, I’ve been surprised by the joys of small and simple servanthood. When I’m tempted to bemoan my limitations I remember that God can feed more than 5,000 people with just two fish and five loaves of bread. My weakness serves to highlight His strength. I feel as if He regularly poses the same question to me as He did to stammering, fearful Moses: “What is that in your hand?” But instead of a staff, I have a 4-year-old son to love and disciple; a laptop and an hour to write an encouraging word; dinner, doubled in portion, so we can share with friends; a chair in my living room and an ear to listen to a hurting young woman. On the weeks of better health, I do a little more. On the weeks of bad health, I do a lot less. I’ve found that God is happy to be with me no matter how I feel or how much I can get done. So while I still ask Him to heal me, I also thank Him for the miracles He’s working through illness. In the most unlikely, unexpected ways He has been carving out unique ministry for me, increasing my joy in Him and in others, and working all things together for my good. It doesn’t look anything like it was supposed to—but it’s beautiful this way. Dare I say, it’s better this way? It’s better that I wasn’t healed quickly like we all wanted. It’s better that I can’t praise a doctor or medicine or methodology for my healing. It’s better that my marriage and motherhood have been forged in weakness. It’s better that I have needed Him so desperately. We are made for perfection, aren’t we, dear one? We are made for eternity. This chafing against weakness makes sense. But someday soon (sooner than I can imagine), I will be made perfect, and so will you. And all these trivial maladies—these light and momentary troubles—will be forgotten in the Glory that far outweighs them all. We will run and not grow weary, walk and not grow faint. We’ll see our Healer face-to-face, and He will wipe away every tear from our eyes. Whether your struggle is with chronic illness or some other form of weakness, God is not wasting it. He’s fulfilling the purposes He’s planned for you since the beginning of time. He sees, He hears, He knows, and He cares. May you experience the gift of His nearness and goodness today. Scriptures referenced: Isaiah 40; Psalm 73; 2 Corinthians 4:17; 2 Corinthians 12:9; Revelation 21:4; 2 Corinthians 1:3-5; Psalm 34:18; Mark 6:34-44; Exodus 4:2

Colleen Elisabeth Chao June 17, 2016