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

~ ~ ~

CHAPTER ONE: THE CLIMBING TREE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pax only glanced at his homework, then turned away. 

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

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

Jayni looked over at Pax. “You okay?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you from?” Jayni repeated. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**See 2 Corinthians 1:4-5.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The post Dear Younger Self appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

You use pain so wisely,
With infinite care,
Knowing right where
To push and pull and tear
And break and burn
Until I’ve finally learned
With all my being to yearn
For You only.

Merciful undoing:
This pain sets me free.
My blind eyes now can see
Unspeakable mystery—
This death leads to life,
No shortcut through strife;
With my good in mind
You’ve afflicted me.

The post Merciful undoing appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

Mystery—

Living in the
In-between
The unknown
The not-yet

Shadow, substance
Long and short
Handspan, breath…
Infinite

Holding on and
Letting go
Open handed
Lingering

Fragile, fearful
Unmoved, strong
Laughing joy
Bitter drink

Hoping long and
grieving slow
Sleepless nights
Mercies dawn

Straining forward
Doubled down
Kneeling, prostrate
Fighting on

Misery and
Miracles
Haunting hours
Holy days

Pain and promise
Loss and love
Breathless, burdened
Greatest grace

Past and future
Eternal now
Death is almost
History

In-between
Here and There
He is found
In mystery.

The post Mystery appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

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. And I will be your peace.”

November 13, 2017

My beloved daughter, dear heart, Colleen—I am weeping with you. I know you were expecting Me to say something else, but I am distressed with you in your distress. I am not unfeeling, but just as I wept over Lazarus’ death and his sisters’ anguish, so I weep with you and feel with you and am WITH you. 

I do not willingly afflict you, grieve you, but I wield this suffering out of the depths of My love for you and for those your life touches. I have EVERYTHING you need for this. I will not rob or cheat you, but will out-give everything you give, and you will look back and say, “I would not have missed that season of suffering for the world.” 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And three years later, still in the midst of ongoing health complications and medical testing—I’m looking back and saying just that. These have been grueling but glorious years. I’m so grateful God doesn’t let us walk AROUND the hard stuff but walks with us THROUGH it. 

In this whitewater year of 2020, when the unrelenting rapids tempt us to harden our hearts or fret or despair, may we be quick to remember God’s immeasurable goodness and to say, “Come and listen, all who fear God, and I will tell what he has done for me” (Psalm 66:16). 

How has God been kind to you in the past—or even just recently? Consider sharing his kindness to you with a friend or family member today. 

The post Three years ago today appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

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.

The post Becoming Elisabeth Elliot (Book Review) appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Take the very hardest thing in your life, the place of difficulty, outward or inward, and expect God to triumph gloriously in that very spot.
—Lilias Trotter, Parables of the Cross

The Lord knows how to order things better than I. The Lord sees further than I do; I only see things at present. … And how do I know that had it not been for this affliction, I should have been undone.
—Jeremiah Burroughs, The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment

It grew harder and harder. There was too much misery, too much seemingly pointless suffering. Every day something else failed to make sense, something else grew too heavy. But…one thing became increasingly clear. And that was the reason the two of us were here. The blacker the night around us grew, the brighter and truer and more beautiful burned the word of God.
—Corrie ten Boom,The Hiding Place (recalling her time spent in Ravensbruck Concentration Camp)

Spare not the pain
though the way I take
be lonely and dark,
though the whole soul ache,
for the flesh must die
though the heart may break.
Spare not the pain,
oh, spare not the pain.
—Ruth Bell Graham, Clouds are the Dust of His Feet

When it costs most we find the greatest joy. We find the darkest hours the brightest, and the greatest loss the highest gain. While the sorrow is short-lived, and will soon pass away, the joy is far more exceeding, and it is eternal. … In the presence of bereavement, in the deepest sorrows of life, He has so drawn near me that I have said to myself, “Is it possible that the precious one who is in His presence can have more of the presence of God than I have?”
—Hudson Taylor

If I refuse to allow one who is dear to me to suffer for the sake of Christ, if I do not see such suffering as the greatest honor that can be offered to any follower of the Crucified, then I know nothing of Calvary love.
—Amy Carmichael, If

The deep of misery calls to the deep of mercy; the deep of transgression calls to the deep of grace. Greater is the deep of mercy than the deep of misery. Therefore let deep swallow deep. Let the deep of mercy swallow the deep of misery.
—Girolamo Savonarola (Italian Dominican preacher martyred in 1498), Reformation Commentary on Scripture

Let no incident of life, pleasing or painful, injure the prosperity of my soul, but rather increase it.
—Christmas Evans, sermon from the early 19th century

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.
—C.H. Spurgeon, The Complete Works of C.H. Spurgeon, Vol. 34

May I not instruct thee in my troubles, but glorify thee in my trials.
—Valley of Vision, page 133

It has everything to do with God and his grace that sustains—not just over the long haul, but grace given in tiny moments, like stepping-stones leading you from one tick of the clock to the next. And the beauty of God’s grace is that it squeezes those hard moments together, eclipsing the years until one day you look over your shoulder and all you see is five decades of God at work. Try as you may, you cannot recall the horror of it all—grace softens the edges of past pains, choosing only the highlights of eternal importance. What you are left with is peace that’s profound, joy that’s unshakable, and faith that is ironclad. It is the hard but beautiful stuff of which God makes your life.
—Joni Eareckson Tada, The Scars That Have Shaped Me

Grant me thy blessings with bitter things,
to brighten and quicken me,
not to depress and make me lifeless.
—Valley of Vision, p.140

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

God has seen to it that [in my life] there has been a certain measure of suffering, a certain measure of pain. And it has been out of that very measure of pain that has come the unshakable conviction that God is love.
—Elisabeth Elliot, Suffering is Never for Nothing

Untried faith is such little faith that some have thought it no faith at all. What a fish would be without water, or a bird without air, that would be faith without trial.
—C.H. Spurgeon, The Trial of Your Faith: Sermons on 1&2 Peter and Jude

Not only this valley but all their earthly past will have been Heaven to those who are saved. … That is what mortals misunderstand. They say of some temporal suffering, “No future bliss can make up for it,” not knowing that Heaven, once attained, will work backwards and turn even that agony into a glory. And that is why, at the end of all things, when the sun rises here and the twilight turns to blackness down there, the Blessed will say “We have never lived anywhere except in Heaven,” and the Lost, “We were always in Hell.” And both will speak truly.
–C.S. Lewis, The Great Divorce

If Christ be not in view, there is nothing but wants.
—Isaac Ambrose, Looking Unto Jesus

Oh, the soul of man is more worth than a thousand worlds! It is the greatest abasing of it that can be—to let it dote upon a little shining earth, upon a little painted beauty and fading glory—when it is capable of union with Christ, of communion with God, and of enjoying the eternal vision of God.
—Thomas Brooks, The Complete Works of Thomas Brooks

The post Words of wisdom appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

You brought me into being though you knew I would be your enemy from the first day—born into sin, enslaved to Self, hating your ways. You knew my greatest suffering would come from within, not without.

You foresaw the brokenness and the beauty (of myself and my world), and you tenderly, tenaciously placed me in the thick of it—to write a story of surpassing goodness.

Even as you have allowed pain to have its wanton way with me these many years, even now as you have let rampant disease, racial division, and political upheaval change the shape of our days, I praise you for you have also—moreso—

revealed the path of life to me (Psalm 16:11)
made my heart glad (16:9)
hemmed me in behind and before (139:5)
helped me, sustained my life (54:4)
rescued me from every trouble (54:7)
fulfilled your purpose for me (57:2)
upheld me and exalted me (18:35)
delighted in me (18:19)
hidden me in the shadow of your wings (17:8)
increased strength within me (138:3)
loosened my bonds (116:16)
turned your ear to me (116:2)
given me a confident heart that is not afraid of bad news (112:7)
supported me with your faithful love (94:18)
made me happy by disciplining and teaching me (94:12)
never left me nor abandoned me (94:14)
made me rejoice by what you have done (92:4)
welcomed me into your house (5:7)
been my refuge in times of trouble (9:9)
listened carefully to me (10:17)
seen my trouble and grief and taken it into your hands (10:14)
provided safety for me (12:5)
counseled me when my thoughts trouble me (16:7)
given me a beautiful inheritance (16:6)
satisfied me with your presence (17:15)
led me along the right paths (23:3)
guided me with your faithful love (26:3)

God, you are Love itself, and in you I have found everything my heart craves. Teach me to love you more.

(All quotes from the Book of Psalms, Christian Standard Bible)

The post Everything my heart craves appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

While I didn’t hike nearly as far as some, I spent 34 years on that beautiful arduous hill. It was harder than I can describe, and I’m left with some hardy callouses and a few long-term injuries. And though I’ve been married for nine years now, I still smell strongly of the dirt and pine of that hill. Contrary to the cliches, I didn’t arrive when I got married; life didn’t begin when I gave birth to my son. The terrain altered significantly, yes—but the Goal and the Guide remained the same.

•••

BEWILDERED
Singleness was the conduit of incredible blessings in my life, but it was not at all what I’d wanted or prepared for, and it was anything but the norm in my circles.

The problem was actually a good one: as a single woman who loved Jesus and his church, I held a high view of marriage, sex, and children, and I longed to enjoy those gifts—gifts God himself created, gifts he chooses to give most women.

I also understood that marriage would not be the answer to all my problems. And I wasn’t duped by the notion that a man (or children) would fulfill my deepest desires. Only Jesus could do that.

But when all except one friend had married and started their families—and I was left standing on the sidelines with a collection of bridesmaid dresses and baby announcements—I felt bewildered, even broken, as I figured out how to live outside the natural order of things. I wanted what God wanted for me (and on those days when I didn’t want it, I asked him to help me want it!), but I was a square peg in a round hole. I didn’t know how to fit into a world made for couples and families.

It wasn’t that I lacked love. I was surrounded by friends, family, roommates, colleagues, and church community—and my days were filled with meaningful work and ministry, travel and adventure. But for all practical purposes, I was flying solo. I paid my own bills, haggled with the repairman at the car shop, navigated revolving housing and roommates, held down high-pressure full-time jobs, and cooked and ate countless meals by myself. (Day after day, year after year.)

One of my roommates, Sarah, expressed it best when she said: “The hardest part of being single is knowing I’m no one’s first priority.” Sarah was not one to view singleness as suffering, but she grieved the reality that there wasn’t one main person to do life with and for. I’ve heard many single women echo this sentiment. I felt it keenly myself.

BELOVED
But the absence of a “first priority relationship” meant that Jesus became more to me—he became my First Love, and I truly felt like his beloved as I tangibly experienced his presence and provision, protection and power. As much as I didn’t like the Apostle Paul’s enthusiasm for singleness, I had to admit he was right: I was enjoying a unique and beautiful devotion to Christ (1 Corinthians 7:32-35; see also Isaiah 54:4).

Out of this devoted relationship with Christ flowed a life of ministry: I had time, energy, and love to invest in hundreds of junior high, high school, and college girls. My days spilled over with the joy of these relationships and my life was filled with the kind of purpose that can only come from loving and serving others for Jesus (no matter how poorly or awkwardly I did it!). Although the deepest desires of my heart went unfulfilled, I could see God’s hand at work in and through me. I knew my singleness, my suffering, mattered.

•••

BEHIND?
Over the years, I came to be known as a strong, self-sufficient woman (an identity not without its own issues), but still there was this underlying tone in many people’s comments to me—an unintentional message that I was not as complete or mature as my married and mommied friends. We’ve all been guilty of saying foolish things in our zeal to help a friend, yes? (In my twenties, I practically buried people alive with my naive advice and opinions.) But as the proverb says, ignorant counsel is a lot like a knife in the hand of a drunkard (26:9)—and many a single woman has been cut by comments such as…

“Motherhood is the most sanctifying thing in the world! I was so selfish and immature before I had kids!”

“Marriage is so hard. Don’t get your hopes up…”

“You’re so lucky to be single! I’d give anything to have a day all to myself!”

“As soon as you’re perfectly content, God will bring along your husband.”

“Maybe you should ____.” (try online dating, lower your standards, change churches, put yourself out there, learn to flirt, wear more makeup, etc.)

Because it takes time to truly listen and understand someone’s story, to pursue knowing them past our own limited experiences, singleness is easily misunderstood by married people—and the single woman can be treated as a problem to solve or a lesser citizen, instead of an example to emulate and a vital part of the community.

My single friends who love Jesus are wellsprings of wisdom and maturity. They live out their faith in secular workplaces and high-profile ministries. They know how to navigate a wide variety of relationships. They’re generous and selfless and hospitable. They seek to know and love God more by knowing his Word—and that (not a particular status in life) is what forms wisdom and maturity in us. The psalmist wrote,

I have more insight than all my teachers because your decrees are my meditation. I understand more than the elders because I obey your precepts. (Psalm 119:99-100)

Yes, marriage and motherhood can mature us in big ways. We could even say they are the normative method for maturity. But when God chooses to work outside the norm, does he leave his beloved daughter stuck in a lower life-cycle? Should we assume that the 40-year-old single woman has less wisdom than the 40-year-old wife with three kids? Of course not. God desires all his daughters to grow up into his fullness—and he shows them the way to complete maturity:

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you experience various trials, because you know that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its full effect, so that you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing. (James 1:2-4)

So all of us, in every season of life, have the same shot at maturity as we remain in Jesus, in his Word, and in relationship with each other—and as we endure with joy.

•••

BETROTHED
Singleness, like hiking, is a feat of endurance. And endurance comes in a variety of forms, one of which is the pursuit of purity in a sexually crazed culture. For the single woman who believes that God has created sex as a sacred gift for a man and woman to enjoy only within the covenant of marriage (for the purpose of displaying Christ’s love for his Church)—regardless of whether she has gay or heterosexual desires—she faces what can feel like a Sisyphean task. (However, unlike Sisyphus, her task is eternally fruitful, not futile.)

When I was diagnosed with cancer two years ago, I began sending out regular email updates with specific ways people could pray for our family. To some extent, people “get cancer”—they know what’s at stake and understand the vocabulary. Words like invasive, aggressive, and chemotherapy communicated our family’s grave reality, and as a result, we received an outpouring of love and support.

In stark contrast, I felt incredibly isolated and without a vocabulary for my sexual reality as a single woman. How could I describe what it was like to daily deny the forceful impulses of my flesh—without sounding disturbing, inappropriate, or desperate? How could I share my struggle just enough to not feel so alone?

But again, grief is accompanied by gift, and when God called me to something as difficult (i.e., humanly impossible) as singleness and abstinence into my mid-thirties, he gave me an experience of his love that surpassed even my most ravenous sexual desires and infused immense meaning into my husbandless, childless life. During those years, I came to know the beautiful reality of Isaiah words:

You will no longer be called Deserted,
And your land will not be called Desolate;
Instead, you will be called My Delight Is in Her….
As a groom rejoices over his bride, so your God will rejoice over you. (Isaiah 62:4-5)

Rejoice, childless one, who did not give birth;
burst into song and shout,
you who have not been in labor!
For the children of the desolate one will be more
than the children of the married woman,”
says the Lord.

Do not be afraid, for you will not be put to shame;
don’t be humiliated, for you will not be disgraced.
For you will forget the shame of your youth,
and you will no longer remember
the disgrace of your widowhood.
Indeed, your husband is your Maker… (Isaiah 54:1,4)

My hike up that beautiful arduous hill may have come to an end, but every step I took is still part of me, part of my story, and (mysteriously enough) helping me keep pace in my present suffering. In a crowd of people, I’m drawn to the woman who also knows the ways of the hill. Her climb is unique, unlike mine in the passions or particulars (in fact, you could ask a hundred different single women and get a hundred different versions of the hill), but inevitably we agree on this: In God’s hands, our suffering finds glorious purpose. He is with us, and that changes even the most arduous hikes into holy places.

The post That Beautiful Arduous Hill (reflections on singleness) appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.