ARTICLES BY COLLEEN CHAO

Category: Grief

Cancer

Three years ago today

Three years ago today, my phone rang with terrible news. My doctor’s office called to inform me they finally had the results of my three-and-a-half months of medical testing. When they wouldn’t disclose the results over the phone, I knew exactly what they were. This past week I revisited my journals surrounding that phone call and the diagnosis that followed several hours later. In Scripture, God often calls his people to remember where they have come from and how good he has been to them. And so, today I’m inviting you to look with me over my shoulder and marvel at God’s breathtaking kindness. Here is how he loved on me in the days just before and after my cancer diagnosis…… Friday, November 3, 2017 Good morning, Abba. This morning I’m thankful for a better night’s sleep—and so much peace from yesterday afternoon till about an hour ago. That was a beautiful gift from You, and I thank You for it. Dear child of Mine, I was so happy to give you that sleep and peace. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you. When you walk through fire you will not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. I see you right now: your head tight and pounding, your neck and shoulders scrunched up, your breathing shallow. This wait has been grueling, and while I’ve protected you with My peace and joy from much of its toll, I’ve still made you walk through an enormously long and complicated waiting process. I know it’s been anguishing, especially as it all comes to a head this week. I can hear you too, beloved: wondering how you could move from this level of exhaustion (these past three months of a new demanding job have been intense) and weariness into a cancer diagnosis. I hear your anxious thoughts, “What will we do financially with such awful insurance?” and “How can I juggle all that I’m already responsible for and then add cancer treatment?” I hear those thoughts, dear Colleen, and I care about them. I care to change your thoughts from anxiety to peace and trust and surrender and hope and joy. I also know how big this is for you. You’re feeling the scope and enormity of these past ten years of chronic illness and insomnia and wondering how I could drop you in the middle of something so potentially awful. Right when you were feeling well for the first time in a decade. I know you are tasting the freedom and joy of dynamic community and you finally have bandwidth for all these incredible relationships, and you feel like this could be isolating again, overwhelming, 100 steps backward. I know this feels insurmountable to you, even when you are so willing to trust Me and surrender to My will. I am glad to be with you and treat your weakness tenderly. I am beside you at this very moment. Above you, overshadowing you with My wings. I am behind and before you, and NOTHING can touch you apart from My good and kind and loving will. I can do something about this, dear heart. I have everything you need to wait through another day as you wonder, “Cancer or not?” Monday, November 6, 2017 Thank You, Abba, for giving me a supernatural anticipation of Your goodness, no matter what my biopsy results. It was almost a wave of excitement yesterday, the culmination of long waiting and arduous weeks of medical fiascos, to know with such certainty that “this lump is a gift” (as You told me many weeks ago). I believe that more than ever, and now with pending results—any moment receiving a phone call—I know You are going to unfold goodness to me as I have yet not known. Wednesday, November 8, 2017 “This lump is a gift,” You said a few months ago. And then yesterday we finally heard the diagnosis: ductal carcinoma, invasive. Cancer. And You stretched out Your hands with that gift, and said again, “I am with you. Don’t fear. I have redeemed you and called you by name—you are Mine. As you pass through these waters, I am with you, and through these rivers, I will not let them overwhelm you. As you walk through this fire, it will not burn you; the flame won’t consume you.” And Jeremy, in all his tender-heartedness and teary eyes last night, asked Eddie to read the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace. And after Eddie finished, Jeremy said, “There are four of us in our family.” Four in the furnace. Four in this family. This morning he said, “Sorry that you’re having cancer.” And I smiled and thanked him and told him I’m not fearful because You’re with me. He said, “And He’s teaching me in this too. What you told me last night—to strengthen me.” Lord, I know You will not waste this in his life. And as I begin to read text after text from people who love me and who care—I know You’re not wasting this in anyone’s life. You use suffering so wisely. So tenderly. So powerfully. Thank You for the two skies You painted for me yesterday: the first on my way to meet Eddie to drive to the doctor’s office—those dark, angry, jagged clouds in the shape of arms and hands (almost angels wings) reaching down from heaven, out of a beautiful blue, puffy-clouded sky. And then the second sky on our way home after the news: it was picture-perfect, like pink, foamy waves on fire. One sky said, “I know what this is for you. I am angry at sin and the toll it has taken on you. And I don’t willingly afflict you with this. I am distressed in your distress.” And the other sky said, “I am making all things beautiful. I will make a thousand beautiful things out of this (even more than a thousand), and I am with you.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao November 7, 2020

Grief

Becoming Elisabeth Elliot (Book Review)

When I was a child, my mother passed along to me a deep appreciation for the life story and writings of Elisabeth Elliot. As a teenager I read her book Passion and Purity, convinced that my own Jim Elliot was right around the corner. In my twenties I often read from Keep A Quiet Heart as I wrestled with both depression and singleness. In my thirties I clung to Elisabeth’s mantra, “Do the next thing” as chronic illness made a home in my body and altered my life ambitions. And I spent the summer I was 42—recovering from chemotherapy and major surgery—savoring every last word of Suffering is Never for Nothing. When Elisabeth passed in 2015, I dug up an old picture I’d taken with her at a speaking engagement 20 years before. Although there had been seasons when I’d tired of her crisp-and-conventional style (after all, she was from my grandparents’ generation, not mine)—and I’d let her books collect dust on my shelves—I looked at the picture with a heart full of love and gratitude, feeling that I’d known her well. Little did I know how little I knew her. Last month I picked up a copy of Ellen Vaughn’s new authorized biography, Becoming Elisabeth Elliot—a captivating look at the woman behind the best-selling books, the lauded story, and the global speaking engagements…. as well as the criticisms. (My friend A.K. is not the only one who spent time with Elisabeth and left with the impression that she was rude and aloof.) Thanks to Vaughn’s writing prowess, laborious legwork, and extensive use of Elisabeth’s personal journals, I felt as if I were shadowing Elisabeth from her birth to her early thirties (Vaughn is writing a second volume to tell the story of Elisabeth’s later years). I vividly saw, smelled, heard, even tasted Elisabeth’s world—from her scrupulous East Coast childhood home to the perilous jungles of her twenties. I felt her agonies and ecstasies, her terrific triumphs and heart-wrenching failures. I wept through words that painted Elisabeth so human—so like me. She too wrestled with depression, a flawed personality, broken relationships, and weariness. Elisabeth wrote, “It is not the level of our spirituality that we can depend on. It is God and nothing less than God, for the work is God’s and the call is God’s and everything is summoned by Him and to His purposes, our bravery and cowardice, our love and our selfishness, our strengths and our weaknesses.” Not only was Elisabeth well acquainted with Weakness, she was also on a first-name basis with Mystery. Vaughn shows how the cumulative loss and death and “unfruitfulness” of Elisabeth’s twenties transformed her from the once “dutiful, devout . . . high-achieving new missionary” into a seasoned woman of tenacious faith who didn’t mind asking the tough questions. Her unresolved sufferings—and the God she came to know intimately in the midst of them—laid the bedrock of her lifelong message that captivated millions around the world. She wrote, “Obviously, God has chosen to leave certain questions unanswered and certain problems without any solution in this life, in order that in our very struggle to answer and solve we may be shoved back, and back, and eternally back to the contemplation of Himself, and to complete trust in Who He is. I’m glad He’s my Father.” While Elisabeth is best known for her husband’s martyrdom and her consequent decision to live with the tribal people who murdered him—and although she did write a number of best-sellers and travel the world speaking to thousands—Vaughn beautifully demonstrates that the most celebrated parts of Elisabeth’s life were “just part of her story. For Elisabeth, as for all of us, the most dramatic chapters may well be less significant than the daily faithfulness that traces the brave trajectory of a human life radically submitted to Christ.” Elisabeth had boring jobs and monotonous days that threatened to suck the life out of her; she endured appalling living conditions in both New York City and Ecuador; she faced long, hard years isolated from dear friends and family; she waited half a decade for the man-of-her-dreams to decide whether or not he was going to marry her. And then after that man finally married her, he was killed 27 months later, leaving her with a toddler and the formidable task of running a jungle station. As I devoured page after page of Vaughn’s biography, I began to realize that while I’d known the indomitable Elisabeth through her testimony, her books, and her messages, I’d not known the flesh-and-bone “Betty” I was discovering through Vaughn’s careful unveiling of her life. Vaughn doesn’t force any preconceived ideas of Elisabeth—in her own words, she wanted “to lay bare the facts of Elisabeth Elliot’s case” by using Elisabeth’s own words, and the words of “so many who knew her well.” Vaughn does this masterfully. As a result, this biography will appeal to a broad audience—not only to those who grew up with Elisabeth Elliot as a household name, but also to a young new generation who asks, “Elisabeth who?” This article also appears on ERLC.com.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao October 4, 2020

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

Of cancer, gifts, and gratitude

Yesterday felt heavy and strange as we closed the door on 2018. What a year. Twelve months ago today, I was recovering from the first of several surgeries and staring chemo in the face. I’d already spent five months hopping from one doctor’s office to another, being jabbed, smashed, scanned, diagnosed, and told what my chances of survival were. I’ll never be able to fully describe those last months of 2017. They were the deep end of the pool, that’s for sure. So when we woke on January 1, 2018, Eddie and I completely forgot it was New Year’s Day. It was Life-and-Death Year, so everything else felt trivial, superfluous. But somewhere along the way, 2018 became The Year of Joy. Every dark day was marked with beauty and kindness and community, and even laughter. (There is no way to laugh through chemo unless a great God is with you.) It was the year when this Shadow World lost a little more of its hold on me. When I cared a lot less about what people thought of me—and a lot more about how I could love them better. It was the year I could not give anything but learned to receive everything. (And if you know me, you know that was painful in the best of ways—and necessary.) It was a year of sitting on my butt in a recliner for hours at a time. So I wrote a book. A work of fiction, of all things. Here’s the description I wrote for the back cover: Pax Griffin, a nine-year-old boy with cancer, and his best friend Jayni, venture into a magical realm where Pax seeks healing. Befriended by three beautiful nymphs, a wooden-legged Hobblechaun, and a bumbling bellbird, Pax and Jayni face down evil forces and discover that healing may not come as they’d expected—but a far better treasure awaits them. Writing this story was the sweetest gift. It helped me to process this complex journey creatively and to speak about suffering in a way that a child might understand. (I’m praying that it will deeply care for some families who find themselves on this same journey.) Finally, 2018 was the year that our hearts overflowed because you, dear friends, walked with us through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. You poured out your very selves, your time, your food, your money, your compassion, your resources, your prayers (I’m starting to cry writing this)—and showed me what Jesus looks like in the flesh. I love him more than ever because you loved us so well. I wish everyone could be so lucky, to experience what I did through you all. (On a side note, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I will never ever catch up on writing thank-you’s for the thousands of ways we’ve been blessed in the past 17 months. It would take a decade and a small fortune in postage stamps. Ha! But I think often of the myriad ways you have held my hands—and Eddie’s and Jeremy’s—and strengthened us to walk through the unthinkable.) And now 2019 is suddenly upon us, and while I’m still in the thick of recovery, still fighting off infections and exhaustion that are part of the long healing process—still sorting through a lot of emotions, along with the keen awareness that this may not be the end of my cancer story (recurrence is all too common)—I feel more than ever before that I’m living out of the heart Jesus gave me, and that is a beautiful thing. I still marvel at the strong and tender word the Spirit gave me in the summer of 2017, when I first discovered a lump in my right breast: “This is a gift,” he said. And oh has it ever been. A gift so good it makes my head spin. God is never a debtor, is he? He always out-gives us. Isn’t it crazy how suffering (not just cancer! …a broken marriage, a special-needs child, long singleness, financial angst, death of a loved one, etc.) can become the conduit to our greatest blessings and joys?! Only God is smart enough and strong enough to do that. Man, I love him so much. I’ve lived just long enough now to know that 2019 won’t be Easy Street. Jesus loves us too much to let us coast or get comfy here. We’re made for Another World, and until we cross over to it, this one will be hard. But… “I have told you these things so that in me you may have peace. You will have suffering in this world. Be courageous! I have conquered the world.” (John 16:33) Friends, I love you all so crazy much—and I’m entering this new year thanking my God for you! Colleen

Colleen Elisabeth Chao January 1, 2019

Cancer

Three months of chemo

Well, tomorrow is Round 12, my final chemo infusion. It was three months ago today that I went in for my first infusion, with a head full of hair and a cancerous tumor bigger than a golf ball. It was nine months ago that I first discovered that tumor—when it was only the size of a pea. That well-worn parenting adage feels so apropos right now: these are long days but short years. And what God has done in nine months’ time is nothing short of miraculous. I know you’ll be shocked when I quote Spurgeon here (ha!), but truly he’s able to express my heart so well: I am afraid that all the grace that I have got of my comfortable and easy times and happy hours, might almost lie on a penny. But the good that I have received from my sorrows, and pains, and griefs, is altogether incalculable. . . . Affliction is the best bit of furniture in my house. It is the best book in a minister’s library. Again and again, it’s been the deepest and darkest legs of my life’s journey that have brought beauty and blessing in Costco-sized portions. This present journey has made me reflect on past sorrows: What if I’d been spared long singleness? Never known depression and anxiety? Been healthy through my thirties? Not watched my son suffer physically? What if crushing private sorrows had passed me by? And what if I’d never heard the words, “It’s cancer”? I’m convinced I would have only a penny-of-grace to my name now. But God has entrusted me with a fortune. His love refuses to leave me poor and destitute, so He wields suffering to make me filthy rich in Him. There are definitely moments, sometimes days at a time, when I don’t want this kind of wealth. This past weekend I would have settled for that pitiful penny, just for a bit of relief. (Chemo is awful.) But here’s the amazing bit about God’s love: He gives me riches and then guards them for me. He won’t let me bankrupt myself. So even on the darkest days, when His gifts look cruel instead of loving, and I’d like to opt out—He is there, holding everything together (Colossians 1:17). Someday soon we’re going to step into Forever and see the enormity of our riches (“an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison” according to Paul), and we’re going to thank Jesus with all of our hearts for not granting us our wishes for ease and comfort and a tidy little life. ~ ~ ~ I’ll leave you with a word that has deeply encouraged me, an excerpt from a letter Samuel Rutherford wrote in 1628: 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]. “Courage up your heart,” sweet friends. He is turning our sufferings into a fortune! He is making us wealthy with the stuff that’s going to last into eternity. We should be the happiest people on earth because we know what’s coming—and it’s breathtakingly good. Colleen P.S. – This was an email update I sent out to friends on Friday night. I’m not blogging much during my cancer journey, but if you’d like to receive my personal updates, you can email me at ColleenEChao@gmail.com.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao April 12, 2018

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

Complain, weep, wonder, and worship.

Summer is an odd duck. School lets out, Instagram becomes a film reel of beach days and vacas, and by July 31st Halloween paraphernalia is holding stores hostage. Between June and August I’m never quite sure if I’m winding down or revving up. These hot months fly fast, so before they’re gone may I ask you a bold question? How are you going to care for your soul this summer? ~ ~ ~ I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love the Psalms. My father read them to me when I was a child, and through repetition many verses were etched in my heart. But it was when depression found me in my late teens and twenties that I clung to the book of Psalms. In it I found “a mirror of divine grace, reflecting the lovely face of our Heavenly Father, and the anatomy of the soul.” Here was raw reality and Godward hope. In these Spirit-breathed poems I understood more of God and more of myself. But a few months ago, inspired by my sister-in-law Shawna, I began experiencing the Psalms in a whole new way. I committed to daily praying through them—complaining, weeping, hoping, praising, singing through them. For 86 days now I’ve given myself over to the full gamut of emotions in the Psalms and I’ve met God afresh. It’s become such a life-giving, joy-starting ritual for me that I’ve been itching to tell you about it. In fact, I’m going to risk sounding presumptuous and challenge you to join me over the next two summer months—to saturate your soul in what Samuel Clarke called “the most useful book of the Bible.” Here’s what I propose: Beginning June 1, pray through one Psalm each day for two months—and challenge a friend to join you. Grab a friend It’s been pure joy for me to read through the Psalms alongside my dear friend Melissa. We read a chapter every weekday (today we were in Psalm 86) and then we text each other our favorite verse. It’s a simple and beautiful form of accountability–and what is sweeter than sharing Scripture with a friend? Who would you enjoy journeying through the Psalms with? Begin to pray Each of us has such a unique relationship with God that my times with Him will look so different from yours. But to give you an idea of how this works for me, here are a few excerpts from three of my “Psalm prayers.” (I usually use my laptop to type these out, but sometimes I pray them aloud, and occasionally I even sit at the piano to sing through them.) from Psalm 61 I am the Rock that is higher than you and your day. I am your Refuge, and under My wings you can find shelter today. I am watching over you with My steadfast love and faithfulness. from Psalm 62 Lord, let my soul wait for You alone, in silence. Let it not fume and fret in the waiting. Let it be still. Quiet. At peace. For from You comes my salvation. My saving! You only are my rock and my salvation, my fortress—the only One who keeps me from being greatly shaken. I shall not be shaken. from Psalm 64 Hear my voice, O God, in my complaint—and boy did I have some complaints in the middle of the night and this morning!!! Preserve my life from the dread of this weekend and next. Hide me from the plots of my flesh and from the effects of others’ sins. Take out these enemies of mine: my pride, selfishness, apathy, anxiety, covetousness, resentment, mismanagement of energy/emotions/time. Bring them to ruin in my heart and mind. For the inward mind and heart of a man are deep! Then others will fear You; they will tell what You have brought about and ponder what You have done. A word for every condition Dear one—this is changing me. I’ve come through a prolonged season of stress, exhaustion, and grief, but my heart is both healing and being emboldened, due in part to these simple prayer sessions. In the psalter there is a word for every human condition, whether you are in the throes of depression or on the heights of bliss. Here you will find permission to “pour out your heart like water in the presence of the Lord” who sees and knows and cares—and acts powerfully on your behalf. So complain. Weep. Wonder. Worship. Hold nothing back from your God. How ever you choose to get with God this summer, may your heart cry out, “Teach me Your way, O Lord, that I may walk in Your truth; unite my heart to fear Your name. I give thanks to You, O Lord my God, with my whole heart, and I will glorify Your name forever. For great is Your steadfast love toward me; You have delivered my soul from the depths of Sheol.” P.S. – If you decide to join me in praying the Psalms, I’d love to hear from you so I can pray for you by name. Just drop me a line at becomingchao@gmail.com. (I’m horrible about emailing back, but I will pray! 🙂 ) Also, here’s a fantastic commentary on the Psalms that’s helped me pray with greater understanding: The Treasury of David *First quote by Gerhard. Other Scriptures referenced: Lamentations 2:19; Isaiah 64:4; Psalm 86:11-13.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao May 26, 2017

Community

Kindness

This past year has been one of the hardest of my life. My hubby will say the same. We watched the bottom drop out from underneath us, and at times fear and fatigue overwhelmed our faith. It’s been one thing after another, but it hasn’t been bloggable stuff. How do you write about the darkest days that threaten to undo you? How do you make sense of what feels like “too much”? No, it’s been for a small circle of dear ones—with the hope that the “comfort we have received” from our Abba during this time, we would soon be able to share freely with many others who are hurting (2 Corinthians 1:4). Last month we began to feel the edges of relief. I think I’d been holding my breath for the larger part of a year, but I started breathing again. Thinking more clearly. Hoping more boldly. I’ve always loved asking friends, after they’ve come through a season of suffering, “What held you through that time? What kept you going?” I’ve asked myself the same thing, and I would have to say that among the many tender mercies along the way, more than anything it has been the kindness of God that has carried us along. He has shown us kindness in a thousand ways, manifested in dozens of people. From complete strangers to dear family members, we have received one kindness after another: bags of groceries, prayers, cards of encouragement, gifts of money, listening ears, flowers left on our front porch, favorite drinks delivered to our front door. The list could go on…. Kindness is so powerful, isn’t it? When I’m in a vulnerable place of suffering, it’s easy for me to forget what is true: that God is kind. He is not mean. Our circumstances may be mean, but in the hand of a kind God, they are transformed for our good. Are you in a tender, suffering place, dear one? Then let this Scripture wash over your soul tonight. Hear the heart of your Abba in His words… “I led them with cords of kindness, with the bands of love, and I became to them as one who eases the yoke on their jaws, and I bent down to them and fed them.” Hosea 11:4 Fellow pilgrim and wounded soul, we entrust our lives to a kind God. A God who is for us and with us and in us, forever expressing the riches of His kindness to us in Christ Jesus (Romans 2:4, Ephesians 2:7, Galatians 5:22).

Colleen Elisabeth Chao January 25, 2017

Bible study

The road to Compassion

If you’ve ever spent time around someone who thinks they know everything, you’ve got a pretty good picture of what I was like in my late teens to early twenties. I had it all figured out, folks. I shared my opinions freely. I judged silently but liberally. I was impatient with weakness. After all, I had a clear vision for my future. I was getting ready to lay down my life as a missionary or pastor’s wife and change the world for Jesus. I was too full of important dreams and ambitions to stop for anyone who didn’t fit into my idealistic little world. So I sprinted by them—the weak, the waiting, the hurting, the hesitant—me in my running shoes with a spring in my step. But God was about to stop me in my tracks and make me walk miles upon miles in their shoes. Over the past two decades, He has paved my way with “severe mercies” to teach me how to sit with the wounded in their pain. To listen and learn. To be patient with weakness. To forgive. And one story in particular has helped me embrace the uncomfortable way of Compassion…. ONE LIKE ME At 17 years old, Joseph was a boastful dreamer and a favored son with a colorful coat to prove it. Reading between the lines of Genesis 37, we can easily imagine Joseph being a know-it-all. And we definitely don’t see any signs of tender-heartedness or sensitivity to others. But by age 30, he had become a deeply compassionate man, with a capacity to forgive great injustices and a skill-set that helped him meet the needs of thousands who otherwise would have died. How did this transformation happen in the span of just 13 years? What could turn a priggish little punk into a mighty man of mercy? JOSEPH SUFFERED You know the story. Joseph is betrayed by his brothers, sold as a slave to a foreign land, wrongly imprisoned, and then (insult to injury) forgotten by fellow prisoners he’d shown great kindness to. Because we know this story so well, we can forget the sheer trauma of these circumstances. Can you even begin to imagine your own siblings selling you into slavery?! And then being accused of rape by a woman you’d resisted in purity? Then imprisoned by her husband, the very man you had secretly and faithfully honored? By human standards, Joseph had every right to be an angry, victimized, incapacitated man. Yet somehow Joseph nurtured a tender, forgiving heart, so that years later he was able to look his traitorous, hateful brothers in the eyes and say, “Do not be distressed or angry with yourselves because you sold me here, for God sent me before you to preserve life. So it was not you who sent me here, but God.” Joseph was made of flesh-and-blood like you and me, so he must have longed for vindication when he was so grievously wronged. Inevitably he wrestled through anger, sadness, fear, perhaps even despair. And while suffering must have been a powerful tool of humility and maturity in this dreamer’s life, suffering in and of itself can’t produce a compassionate heart. (In fact, as you and I well know, it often leads to a hardened, embittered heart.) GOD WAS WITH JOSEPH In Genesis 39, we learn the secret to staying tender and tenacious through suffering. Four times it says: “The Lord was with Joseph.” The Lord was with him when his brothers threw him in a pit. He was with him when he was sold as a slave to Egypt. He was with him when he was falsely accused of attempted rape and thrown into prison. He was with him when the baker and the cupbearer forgot about him, leaving him in prison for two additional years. God was with Joseph. And that changed everything. God’s nearness was Joseph’s good (Psalm 73:28), and it resulted in the saving of many lives and the preservation of God’s chosen people. God’s nearness was Joseph’s good, so he was able to say, “God did this to me so that others could live.” Had Joseph remained at home, comfortably cloaked in the favor of his father, history would tell a very different story today. But God mercifully gifted Joseph with a long season of suffering and the intimate experience of His transforming presence. FROM COLOR-COATED TO COMPASSIONATE Still I find myself judgmental at times. Short on compassion. Missing opportunities to meet others’ needs because I’m so wrapped up in my own. But walking through weakness and hardships with Jesus has been a beautiful journey that is slowly changing me. And while I haven’t experienced sufferings like Joseph’s, I’ve experienced the withness of his God. Because God has forgiven me, I can forgive others. Because He has comforted me with His presence, I can comfort others. Because He has walked in my shoes, I can walk in theirs. Because He laid down His life to love me while I was still His enemy…. I long to learn how to lay down my life to love the lost ones around me. If we could sit down together and swap stories, I’m sure we’d both agree that the road to Compassion can be costly and uncomfortable, but it is the way of joy. Because when it feels like we’ve died to our dearest dreams and life doesn’t look anything like we think it should, we finally have ears to hear God say, “Come with Me, beloved child—I have works of love for you to do.” Scriptures referenced: Genesis 39:2, 23; 41:38. Genesis 37-45. Psalm 73:28. Hebrews 2:17-18. Galatians 4:4-7. Colossians 3:12. Ephesians 2:10.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao September 11, 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