ARTICLES BY COLLEEN CHAO

Category: Hope

Cancer

Why hasn’t God healed me?

I used to think suffering was meant to teach me lessons—hard but good life lessons—and as soon as I learned what God wanted me to learn, my suffering would come to an end. 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?”

Colleen Elisabeth Chao November 28, 2022

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

Bible study

A book like Amos (for a year like 2020)

What if tomorrow, one person could rise up and speak peace into the chaos of our world, healing into the brokenness? What if one voice could drown out all others—the arrogant, the bitter, the violent, the naïve? I’ve spent a couple of months looking long at the prophetic book of Amos, and I’ve been stunned to find a microcosm of our own current world affairs—as well as a God who speaks into the madness, whose voice is so powerful and authoritative that it leaves every other voice (even the ones screaming the loudest) sounding like whispers in a hurricane. Amos begins his book by saying, “The Lord roars from Zion and makes his voice heard.” According to Amos, the Lord roars (and also speaks and sings) in order to: …declare punishment on both his own people and their neighbors. …recount all the ways he has tried to win back his people. …proclaim his presence and his plan to redeem. I love that God is an all-knowing, truth-telling God. He’s not passive-aggressive or unsure of himself, nor is he swayed by the masses. He calls a spade, a spade. And so, in chapter 1 of Amos, he brings grave accusations against three of Israel’s neighbors: Edom, for mistreating his brothers (as well as stifling his compassion and raging incessantly); Gaza, for exiling “a whole community”; and Tyre, for breaking “a treaty of brotherhood.”** To these nations who abused and enslaved people within their own communities, he promises to send consuming fire as punishment. Then he accuses Judah of rejecting his instruction, of following ancestral lies that led them astray. For them, too, consuming fire is promised. Then the Lord moves on to Israel, describing her as predatory, impure, violent, enslaved to sin, indulgent, proud, callous, complacent, and self-righteous. Because of her sins, the Lord says, “Look, I am about to crush you in your place as a wagon crushes when full of grain. … I will punish you for all your iniquities.” And then—perhaps just in case Israel dares to question God (“How could you be so cruel?!”)—God reminds her of all the ways he’s tried to stop her from self-destructing, all the ways he’s tried to get her attention and woo her back to himself. I sent famine—yet you did not return to me.I sent drought—yet you did not return to me.I made you stagger—yet you did not return to me.I struck you with plagues, disease, defeat, and death—yet you did not return to me. Out of his great desire to be in relationship with his people, to save them from their sins, God sent crisis after crisis. Yet his people refused to return to him. (I don’t want to rush past these haunting verses. I want to sit here and feel the awfulness of them—and then be filled with gratitude that the Lord disciplines those he loves. Oh, how I’ve needed his discipline time and again when I’ve set out on a destructive path.) My favorite moment in the book of Amos comes next. At the climax of exposing Israel’s sin and prophesying judgment, the Lord tells her that he is with her—and gives her yet another chance to repent of her sins and seek him. “He is here: the one who forms the mountains, creates the wind, and reveals his thoughts to man, the one who makes the dawn out of darkness and strides on the heights of the earth. The Lord, the God of Armies, is his name.” (4:13) “Seek me and live!” (5:4) “Seek the Lord and live or he will spread like fire… (5:6) The heart of God beats with holiness and hatred for sin, yet tender longing and patience too—“not wanting any to perish but all to come to repentance” (2 Peter 3:9). Judgment was coming. Israel would pay dearly for rejecting her perfect and patient Lover. Even so, the book of Amos ends with God promising a day when all things will be made right. “I will restore the fallen shelter of David;I will repair its gaps,restore its ruins,and rebuild it as in the days of old. …I will restore the fortunesof my people Israel. …I will plant them on their landand they will never again be uprootedfrom the land I have given them.The Lord your God has spoken.” This year we collectively find ourselves in a chapter of chaos and crisis and conflict—but it is only just a chapter. The Story is a surpassingly great one, and it is always moving toward its glorious end (which is really not an end at all, but a breathtaking new beginning). God is here. He is speaking, roaring. And his plans will prevail. Speak, Lord, for we are listening. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Postscript: One of the most surprising and compelling themes of Amos (which I couldn’t capture in this scratch-the-surface post), is God’s heart for the nations. For this and so many other reasons, I highly recommend spending some time in this oft-overlooked prophetic book! **Moab was a fourth neighbor God accuses and judges, and his crime was “burning the bones of the king of Edom to lime.” I found it fascinating that Edom was guilty of heinous sins, and God was going to judge him with fire, yet God would not tolerate another nation using fire to murder Edom’s king.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao August 16, 2020

Hope

Home

I’ve moved fifteen times in fourteen years, and here I am again—purging bedrooms and packing cardboard boxes. Pretty sure I could do this in my sleep. But this nomadic existence has been good for my soul. Yes, it’s exhausting at times—and I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to stay put in one place for a nice long decade. But then, I’m so grateful for the reminder that this isn’t my ultimate destination. This is just a pit stop. So today I wrap my arms around the beauty of uprooting once again. These rooms turned inside-out are proof that everything here is transitory. This isn’t Home—this house on a tiny plot of cement in the ‘burbs, riddled with black mold, cranky pipes, and a negligent landlord. With its weeds and wasp nests and bugs that eat up my potted plants. Home is on the horizon but not here yet—in a land that won’t burn, quake, erupt, decay, or flood. Home is an intimate yet infinite affair, custom-built by a Creator whose designs are more captivating than any ever seen, whose architecture is unrivaled in all of history. Home is where every good desire is fulfilled, every beautiful dream comes true, every breathtaking wonder is realized—because in it… “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.” (Revelation 21:3-4) Home is where we finally get to be perfectly happy. And so even the most luxurious houses and cities here in this temporary land look like child’s play compared to what’s coming. As our family prepares to move into a much smaller space so we can pay off medical bills and live more simply after a cumbrous two years—we realize what a gift we’ve been given. We get to practice letting go of this extraneous stuff (stuff that just breaks down, rusts, and fades anyway, right?) and to remember the “eternal pleasures” to come—pleasures that will never be destroyed, in a land where we will finally feel wholly at home. “By faith Abraham…was looking forward to the city that has foundations, whose architect and builder is God.” “They saw [God’s promises] from a distance, greeted them, and confessed that they were foreigners and temporary residents on the earth. Now those who say such things make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. … They now desire a better place—a heavenly one. Therefore, God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.” –select verses from Hebrews 11

Colleen Elisabeth Chao July 4, 2019

Beauty

Suffering’s Invitation

I remember the first time I visited the White House. I admired it from behind its wrought-iron fence, a tourist with a camera. The second time, I visited at the invitation of a congressman’s wife, who gave me a private tour. On my third visit, I was escorted by my lifelong friend, Karen, who was serving as Director of White House Personnel. I got the insider’s tour, treading reverently through hallowed hallways and royally decorated rooms. My fourth and final visit found me eating breakfast in the posh and private dining room set apart for presidential appointees only—again at Karen’s generous invitation. This simple California girl had no business being in a place of such power and prestige. I belonged on the outside with the other tourists taking pictures across the front lawn. Had it not been for a few special invitations, those vigilantly guarded gates would have remained closed to me forever. But I’ve received many invitations to frequent a much more coveted place—one so superior that it leaves the White House looking like a broken-down shack. This place drips with incomparable beauty and power and treasure and comfort. In my twenties, the invitations started rolling in—in the unexpected form of anxiety and depression. In my thirties, they came as extended singleness and chronic illness and a sick child. Just twenty months ago, the invitation was a cancer diagnosis. Sometimes the invites have come with less pomp and circumstance—a wounded relationship, a stressful job, a deep disappointment. Though bitter and unwelcome, these sufferings have ushered me into privileged places, deeper and deeper into the Beautiful, Marvelous Expanses of God. Without them, I would have remained a tourist of sorts, admiring the glories of God from a distance, but never truly experiencing them for myself. Obviously, suffering in and of itself is not redemptive nor desirable. Who willingly signs up to be hurt?! How could wounding ever be good? But “since Christ suffered in the flesh,” killing sin and death, we experience more of his life when we suffer, “because the one who suffers in the flesh is finished with sin” (1 Peter 4:1). I have often sensed the Spirit whispering to me in my pain, Come in further, dear heart. There’s more beauty in Me than you can possibly imagine. I have prayer journals full of this beauty—breathtaking stuff he has revealed to me in the darkest hours of my life. Last year, in the thick of chemotherapy, I sensed the Spirit impressing this on my heart: I know this is hard. I know there’s dread as tomorrow approaches; I know what it means week after week to sit in that chair. But I am here. With you. I’ve chosen you, beloved—to bring you nearer to Me. I have everything, everything, you need for this journey. And I have poured out my Spirit on you, given you joy and peace and purpose like never before. I’m changing you, freeing you, blessing you. And this is not your doing, loved one. Your job is to hide yourself in Me and watch Me work on your behalf. Today that’s what I want you to do—hide yourself in Me. Rest. Trust. Enjoy Me. I am yours and you are Mine. And through long years of singleness, I came to love the promises of Isaiah 54:4–5: “Fear not, for you will not be ashamed; be not confounded, for you will not be disgraced; for you will forget the shame of your youth, and the reproach of your widowhood you will remember no more. For your Maker is your husband, the Lord of hosts is his name; and the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer, the God of the whole earth he is called.” And as I’ve watched my only son suffer mysterious illnesses, one after another, I’ve understood a little bit more of God’s sacrificial love for me. He too was a parent who anguished over watching His only Son suffer. Only, He chose to do it (He crushed His own Son!) so that I could be forgiven and healed and treasured and free. Many have suffered far more than I have. (I read their stories to strengthen my flabby soul. I listen carefully to their words about how good God is even when life is unspeakably awful.) But the hardships God has entrusted to me have been perfectly tailored to draw me further and further into the Beautiful, Marvelous Expanses of God. He has not wasted one tear I’ve cried, one physical pain I’ve endured, one dream I’ve watched die. He has used every single sorrow and weakness to bring me into more of his joy, freedom, courage, power, faith, compassion, and love. He is not a one-dimensional god. There is more to Him than we can possibly imagine. He has no beginning nor end; He is both tender and fierce; He is mesmerizingly mysterious. There is no end to his jaw-dropping goodness—goodness He longs for us to experience. And so He gently pries our little-kid fingers off our little-earth treasures, then shows us “the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge” of Himself (Rom. 11:33). Dear one, today’s sorrow may just be your much-coveted invitation to go further into the Beautiful, Marvelous Expanses of God. This article also appears on True Woman.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao April 18, 2019

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