ARTICLES BY COLLEEN CHAO

Category: Waiting

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

Singleness

That Beautiful Arduous Hill (reflections on singleness)

Singleness is a long hike up a steep hill. Chances are, you’re either on the hike yourself or you know someone who is. Everyone has stories to tell of it. (It’s that kind of hike. It’s that kind of hill.) I’m so grateful for my 34-year ascent up that Beautiful Arduous Hill. It was harder than I could hope to describe, and I’m left with some hardy callouses, a few long-term injuries, and a smidge of PTSD. But I look back at that climb as one of the greatest experiences God has ever entrusted to me. I’ve been married for nine years now (I didn’t hike nearly as far as some), yet I still smell strongly of the earth and pine of that hill. Contrary to popular opinion, I didn’t “arrive” when I finally married; life didn’t “begin” when I got a ring on my finger and a baby in my womb. The path altered significantly, yes—but the Goal and the Guide remained the same. I think often on my singleness, even occasionally dream about it still. In a crowd of people, I find myself drawn to the woman who also knows the ways of The Hill. In fact, my own story has become inextricably woven into the stories of many single women I’ve met over the years. I’ve learned that we each shoulder a unique load; we each view the hill through different eyes. Truth is, you could talk to a hundred different single women and get a hundred different versions of this hike. But all of us have agreed on one thing in particular: We’re not meant to go it alone. We’re meant for joyful relationship with Christ and his people. Our one great good is God himself, and one of the best ways we can experience him is by being in relationship with each other. The psalmist David put it this way: I said to the Lord, “You are my Lord; I have nothing good besides you.” As for the holy people who are in the land, they are the noble ones. All my delight is in them. (Psalm 16:2-3, emphasis mine) These two things can sound contrary, but in fact they perfectly coexist: God is our only good, and his people are all our delight. And an uphill climb requires gargantuan good and strong doses of delight. This relational joy we share with each other and our God enables us to do feats otherwise impossible. And, at least in my own experience, singleness sometimes felt like an impossible feat. I knew it was part of God’s good plan for me, and it was the conduit of incredible blessings in my life, but it wasn’t what I had prepared for, and it definitely wasn’t “the norm” in my social circles—hence the uphill feeling. 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 childbearing. I was convinced God is the creator and sustainer of these beautiful gifts—gifts he chooses to give most women. I also understood that marriage would not be the answer to all of my problems. And I wasn’t duped by the notion that a man (or children) would fulfill my deepest desires. Only Christ could do that. But when almost every last friend of mine had made it to the altar, and I was still standing on the sidelines with half a dozen bridesmaid dresses in hand—I felt somewhat disoriented, even occasionally distressed, as I figured out how to function outside the natural order of things. I deeply 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 friends. I had an ever-expanding social circle and more relationships than I knew what to do with. But for all practical purposes, I was flying solo. I paid my own bills, made my own meals, haggled with the repairman at the car shop, held down high-pressured jobs, cleaned and calendared and dealt with conflict all by myself. (Day after day, year after year.) Even though I was blessed with friends and family and roommates who shared in some of my life tasks, I bore a tremendous amount of responsibility alone. One of my former roommates, Sarah, expressed my feelings perfectly: “The hardest part of being single,” she said, “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 had many single friends echo this sentiment. I felt it keenly myself. What a bizarre experience it was to spend my days in the company of so many wonderful people, to be busy and fulfilled doing work that mattered—yet all the while feel so… on my own. But to every grief there is a gift, and the absence of a “first priority relationship” afforded me the time and motivation to seek Christ in focused ways. While some of my married friends confessed they were struggling to perceive God’s presence—I was experiencing his nearness in almost palpable ways. He was my First Love, and I felt like his beloved. 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). ~ ~ ~ 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 spouting folly in our eagerness

Colleen Elisabeth Chao October 4, 2019

Singleness

Because you’re 40 today

We met when we were gangly 8- and 9-year-old girls. Our small church and a mutual love for rollerskating were the only bonds we needed to forge a simple friendship. Had you asked us back then if we’d still be friends 32 years later, Karen and I would have giggled in disbelief. In fact, we giggled a lot. Karen was eventually banned from Saturday night sleepovers at my house—something about the all-night laughing fest wasn’t conducive to my dad’s sermon preparations for Sunday morning. We saw each other through the awkward growing-up years, with Christmas pageants and lock-ins and beach trips and potlucks weaving our childhood friendship into something more comfortable and familiar. Then suddenly college came, and there were degrees to be had and new friends to be made and husbands to be found. We ended up with the degrees and the friends, but without the husbands we trekked into the unknown as single working women. Our lives didn’t look like we’d always pictured they would. But we were young and energetic and the world was our oyster, so one day we emailed each other from work: “Let’s move to Washington, D.C.!” And we did. We packed up our belongings and headed east. Karen worked her way to the White House; I had to return home to California. My return meant we were now long-distance friends for the first time in our lives. In the decade that followed, we bridged the gap by flying coast-to-coast to visit each other several times a year. Then the waiting years were upon us. We watched 30 come and go without a boyfriend in sight. Conversations were full of “Where have all the godly men gone?!” and “Is there a man famine?!” We learned to work hard to support ourselves, to make transient homes, to live with a variety of roommates. Karen was Director of White House Personnel and met with heads of state. I was an English teacher and an editor, trying to inspire teenagers and wrangle words into submission. Karen traveled the world and filled up her passport—I lived vicariously through her exciting stories. And oh could she tell stories. (Still can. There isn’t a better storyteller than Karen.) She made me laugh by the hour with her accounts of high-fiving President Bush; walking across Spain on foot, with blisters the size of tennis balls; and that time she accidentally stepped into an unmarked van and ended up at FBI headquarters on lockdown (in her red heels, of course). We both grew social circles the size of small countries, both struggled to find balance and the courage to say “no,” both had an unhealthy obsession with coffee and late nights and Les Mis. Then the changing years came. It had been so sweet to share our single years together, to have someone else “get it,” that we’d prayed marriage would come at the same time for us both. It didn’t. I called Karen the night I got engaged. My heart anguished over it. I knew what it was to feel “left behind,” to wait long and fight for hope while everyone else walked the aisle. But Karen showed me a love so selfless, so freely given at her own expense. She celebrated God’s faithfulness to me, showered me with bridal gifts, and spoke encouragement into my new marriage with Eddie. She celebrated again eleven months later when I gave birth to my son. She continued to rejoice with me even as she continued to wait. It was two years later when Karen casually (or not so casually) mentioned a great guy named Rob. Soon our conversations were filled with talk of this handsome U.S. diplomat who had a personality even bigger than her own. He was kind, intentional, intelligent, and loved God. And he loved my dear friend. It wasn’t long before I was flying back to D.C. to celebrate a long-awaited wedding. Karen Race was now Karen McCutcheon, and her husband whisked her off to Dubai (to provide her with more storytelling material, of course). And now somehow, by some mysterious blinking power, the forties are upon us. A few days ago we admitted again that life looks nothing like we thought it would. It’s been harder than we’d imagined. It’s been richer than we’d dreamed. In the fall of 1985, God gave me one of the sweetest gifts of my life. Because I know Karen, I know what joy and perseverance and transparency look like. I’ve laughed until my sides hurt. I’ve had adventures to last me a lifetime. I’ve loved people better. I’ve loved Jesus harder. Today I celebrate a phenomenal woman on her 40th birthday. And I thank God for the friendship He knew would beautify the many seasons of my life. Happy birthday, Karen. (Photo credits: First wedding pic by Lorelei Conover Photography. Second wedding pic by Marissa Joy Photography.)

Colleen Elisabeth Chao June 11, 2017

Love

Choosing love (when you’re falling in love)

Seven years ago I sat in a coffee shop, looking across the table at a handsome man named Eddie. He was not quite a stranger to me, due to weeks of long phone conversations and shared group activities—but he was a huge risk. And I was scared. Please don’t hurt me, my tender heart silently cried. But from what I knew of him already, I couldn’t help but get excited when Eddie stated his intentions that night. He wanted to pursue a serious, marriage-minded relationship with me. ~ ~ ~ ~ By the time you’re 33 and still unmarried, you’ve mourned the death of a thousand dreams and you have just as many reasons why you should never risk your heart with another man again, why you should run when you see weakness in him, why dating can feel like a prelude to devastation. So while I was completely enamored with Eddie and couldn’t wait to spend every possible minute with him, I was also ready to bolt at any given moment. Surely God would say “no” to this one too, right? Well, I’d be ready. With my running shoes on. I begged God to let me get it right this time. I wanted a “yes” or “no”—sooner rather than later. I’d already risked my heart with several great guys before. Each time it had seemed so promising, so right. What made this scenario any different? Was I just setting myself up for another heartbreak? I had a shelf full of waiting-and-dating books but deep down I knew there was no course of action that would guarantee a safe and blissful trip to the altar. God was not asking me to get it all right—He was asking me for my heart. He wanted me to cling to Him and hold my relationship with Eddie in open, surrendered hands. And that’s as hard as it sounds. So I asked Him to teach me. Show me how to love and be loved in the midst of my fears, Lord. I had to close my eyes to the “what-ifs” and worst-case scenarios that played like a film festival in my heart—and instead look long at Him, staying in His Word and pouring out my heart to Him in prayer. But I was a slow, awkward learner. I remember calling one of my best friends in a frenzy over another “red flag” I saw in my relationship with Eddie. (I’d put those running shoes on again.) Lisa listened patiently and then said in her characteristically truth-telling way, “You keep looking for red flags in this guy, but you’re the mess.” And she was right. I was. I was a bundle of nerves and misgivings, and I needed a big God to walk me through heart-rending places. In those months I learned a new way to apply Elisabeth Elliot’s advice to “do the next thing.” I would enjoy the next date and leave the next year—with all its uncertainties and unknowns—in God’s strong hands. Growing to love and trust Eddie was, in a strange sense, a beautiful discipline. I was facing some of my long-standing fears, opening up my heart in the very places it was most tender, and learning it was okay to enjoy what God was giving me. Have you ever been terrified of a good gift God is giving you? ~ ~ ~ ~ We girls tend to think of falling in love with “the one” as something that will be obvious and chick-flick-worthy. But for me it was a season of tenacious trust. Right alongside the butterflies in my stomach and the new sparkle in my eyes was a sobering awareness that only God Himself could give me the grace to love past my fears, to love without knowing what tomorrow looked like. And only He could get me ready for a covenant love—a love so supernatural that two sinners with a ton of baggage, living in an anti-marriage culture, could commit their lives to each other “till death do us part.” In the end, I chose to love more than I fell in love. And that ushered me into a beautiful marriage where we continue to choose to keep loving each other every day, in our best and our worst. We’re only six years into this lifelong covenant, but I have a hunch we’ll be choosing love to our very last day.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao December 26, 2016

Motherhood

Do the next thing: Wisdom from Elisabeth Elliot

As a young teen, I read her books and articles with a voracious appetite for her wisdom. When I was 20, I attended one of her conferences and met her in person. Even now, one of her books sits at my bedside. Few women have had the influence on my life that she has had. It wasn’t that Elisabeth Elliot was perfect—far from it; it was the fact that she knew Christ’s strength in her weakness and made the clarion call for others to do the same. And while her wealth of wisdom shaped much of my thinking in my formative years, there is one particular piece of her advice that has helped me navigate seasons of depression, stress and uncertainty. It was advice she herself had gleaned from an Old Saxon poem: Do it immediately; Do it with prayer; Do it reliantly, casting all care; Do it with reverence, Tracing His Hand, Who placed it before thee with Earnest command. Stayed on Omnipotence, Safe ‘neath His wing, Leave all resultings, DO THE NEXT THING. It was that simple: Do the next thing. And I’ve rehearsed it a thousand times to myself these many years. Do the next thing. In a culture obsessed with celebrity and novelty, emotional highs and experiences, we’ve forgotten that real life is mostly lived in the daily mundane. It’s not lived on mountaintops and it’s not impressive enough to be a Facebook status. It’s a series of uncelebrated steps, of hidden habits. This week you’ll do a hundred unspectacular things: brush your teeth, eat food, wash dishes, do laundry, answer the phone, pay bills, gas up your car, wash your hands, make your bed, etc. You’ll do the next thing. And then, after that, you’ll do the next thing. One little (seemingly insignificant) moment at a time. But God has often written his story in the midst of everyday affairs. Consider the lives of King David, Moses and Ruth. David was a shepherd boy who wielded a sling and stone to keep his sheep safe from predators. One swing at a time, one predator at a time, until one day, “David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a stone” (1 Sam. 17:50). He wasn’t setting out to be famous, eagerly awaiting the day when his name might top the “50 Most Influential Israelites” list. He was faithful to do what was before him, even when that was caring for a bunch of sheep. And Moses, after enjoying the life of a prince, spent four decades in the wilderness. We know little of his time there except that he tended sheep. When God revealed himself to Moses through a burning bush, he posed the question, “What is that in your hand?” And Moses answered the obvious: “A staff.” It was this simple utilitarian staff—used for prodding and protecting sheep—that God would use to show his glory to Pharaoh, the Israelites and all of Egypt. Then there’s Ruth. Apparently she had extensive experience gleaning in the fields. So when she arrived in Israel with her mother-in-law, destitute and hungry—she did what she’d done a thousand times. Never could she have known what God was accomplishing in the midst of her hard, tireless labor. How many times did Moses carry that staff in his hand? David wield his sling? Ruth work tirelessly to provide for her family? Dozens and hundreds and thousands of times. Years upon years. But the mundane became the soil in which the miraculous grew. Sometimes the next thing to do is hard. It’s the last thing you feel like doing. But it’s what he’s put before you, and it is good. Many years ago, a young widow took her small child and moved into the very tribe that had killed her husband. When folks made a fuss over her heroic faith, she quickly declined their praise and said she’d simply learned to “do the next thing.” “What is that in your hand?” Take it and do the next thing. What is your stone-and-sling, your staff, your field to glean? You take care of the task before you, even if it’s mind-numbingly mundane or breathtakingly scary—and as you offer up your obedience to him, he’ll make it into something miraculous.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao June 16, 2015

shallow focus photography of string lights

Grieve

When the holidays are hard

I was 31 and it was Christmas Eve when we had The Talk. Everyone thought we were the perfect match. So even though I put on a happy face, my heart reeled as he told me we should “just be friends.” We wished each other a merry Christmas, he walked out the door, and I fell apart. Then I pulled myself together again to join my family for Christmas Eve dinner—where my younger brother and his wife announced they were expecting their first child. I celebrated as I choked back soul-deep sobs. My single years held many Christmases like that one—sweet joys in the midst of silent anguish, bitterness tangled up in beauty. The very things about the season that enchanted me, also served to magnify my heartache: parties with everyone coupled up but me; romantic Christmas music and movies; and those annual Christmas letters brimming with friends’ burgeoning families. It all reminded me of what I didn’t have, of what I longed for with all my being. My fight for contentment and hope was so much more intense through those holiday weeks. But I didn’t have the corner on the market of pain. Others were also hurting and hoping for better Christmases to come. Over the years I wept with friends who suffered the loss of a newborn baby, a parent’s sudden death, a broken marriage, a barren womb, and financial hardships. My heart grew tender toward those who lacked the very basic necessities of life: shelter, food, and love—as well as those who suffered “smaller” pangs: strained family relationships, the betrayal of a close friend, or the loneliness of living far from home and loved ones. And while marriage and motherhood have taken much of Bitterness’ bite out of the season, my husband and I have navigated a job loss, flooded home, debilitating illness, and other such stresses, all while celebrating “the most wonderful season of all.” Dear one, you’ve been here too, haven’t you? You have fasted in the middle of the feast, and you’ve tasted the bitterness in the bounty. The holidays, especially Christmas it seems, represent all that is generous and beautiful. We sing of peace and well-being and hope. We give thanks and we exchange gifts. We cherish the idea of an invisible Santa Claus delivering wishes-come-true, of family gatherings around a festive feast, and of hot drinks sipped at the fireside with Bing Crosby’s voice crooning in the background. But we feel the deep disparity between this broken world we live in, and the world we were made for. Our hearts long for unadulterated happiness and peace, but we are marred by brokenness and need. And therein lies the greatest gift of all: this deep disparity brings us back to the true meaning of Christmas. Our heartaches, our have-nots, and even the brokenness of the world around us—they drive us to the Only One who can satiate our souls. And that longing within us for something more, that discontent that follows the feast and the gift-opening—it reminds us of the immeasurable gift God gave us in sending his Son Jesus to us… To live with us. To die for us. To give us the infinite riches of Himself. And not only did He give us His Son, but He also constantly works this brokenness and heartache for our good—our infinite, perfect, glorious good. Though I won’t know the fullness of that good until eternity, I’ve experienced it here in a million ways. Do you know how thankful I am for those years when God didn’t give me what I so desperately wanted? Oh, how I praise Him for that long wait that made me fall in love with Him, and for saying “no” to every other man so that I could marry the best man of all, Edward Chao. These holidays are for us, dear one—for the hurting, the broken, and the needy. Our culture is enamored with busy, expensive, indulgent, feel-good holidays. But God is always about us finding our highest good in Him, even when that requires us to suffer, to do without, or to wait an inordinate length of time. He loves us too much to let us settle for lesser loves. This Christmas, may our silent aches and longings compel us to worship the God of the Universe, who wrapped Himself in flesh and blood so that our lives would have meaning, so that we would know the Hope that does not disappoint. {Scriptures referenced: Hebrews 13:14-15, Romans 8:32, 2 Corinthians 4:17, Romans 5:5} This article is from the archives (originally posted November 2013). This was also posted on True Woman.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao November 23, 2014

Grief

Are you weary of waiting on the Lord?

I bet you’re waiting for something right now. And I don’t mean the traffic light to change or the water pot to boil. I mean, you’re really waiting, aren’t you? God wants me to want Him more than any particular outcome or hope fulfilled. I waited a long time for two of my heart’s greatest desires, marriage and motherhood. But saying “I do” and “We’re due” didn’t exonerate me from The Waiting Game. Every day of my life continues to offer me a myriad of opportunities to wait on God for one desire or another. Waiting can be agonizing, can’t it? It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do—and I have to do it all the time. So why after all these years of waiting am I not good at it yet? Why can it still feel so excruciating? A New Way to Tell Time Over the past four years—years that have held some of the greatest joys and blessings of my life—God has gifted my family with a host of hardships that have felt like “too much” too many times to count. In the course of these years, I have often found myself in a place of desperation and despair as I look at our circumstances. Why would God have me wait so long for marriage and motherhood, and then gift them to me wrapped in so much trouble? Have you been here too, dear one? Have you walked out of one waiting room only to enter into another? When I tick-tock to the sound of my own finite clock, God seems late. Silent. Disengaged. Perhaps even mean. But patiently, graciously, over the past two decades, God has been teaching me how to tell time Hisway. His is an infinite timetable, and He is never tardy. In fact, God is always right on time—even when it takes centuries to see His purposes fulfilled. Consider a few of the long waits we read of in Scripture: Abraham and Sarah waited 25 years to see God’s promise of a son fulfilled. Jacob and Esau made amends 20 years after their vehement falling out. David waited at least 15 years (perhaps as many as 20) between the time of his anointing to be king and actually taking the throne. Joseph was reconciled to his brothers two decades after they sold him as a slave. Moses was 80 years old when he began to lead God’s people. A woman was sick and bleeding for 12 years before Jesus healed her. After the apostle Paul’s conversion, somewhere between 11 and 17 years passed before he began his first missionary journey. God is not in a rush, is He? He sees the end from the beginning, and He knows all things. So while I want action now and problems fixed yesterday, God says, “Come to Me and trust that I am good.” The Rub I’m a doer, a go-getter, an ambitious and creative soul—so Lord, show me how to fix this! I’ll do whatever it takes to see my son healed, mend that broken relationship, and alleviate our financial pressures! Show me, Lord! Instead, He shows me something infinitely better. The problem is not yet solved, there are loose ends, there is grief and confusion—but there He is, standing smack-dab in the middle of my mess and gifting me more of Himself. He wants me to want Him more than any particular outcome or hope fulfilled. And as my desire for Him begins to outweigh my desire for results, I am further freed from my bondage to lifelong sins of pride, anxiety, and fear of man. I have a greater desire for kingdom work than the pursuit of my own temporal comforts. I am eager to comfort those around me who are also hurting. And so He continues to make me wait on Him. This waiting, it is working miracles in us, dear one. It is setting us free. It’s lighting our hearts on fire for the gospel. Look up at Christ again today, and keep your gaze there. Lean the full weight of your welfare into Him. For He is always good, and He is never late.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao September 2, 2014

Beauty

Life comes in seasons

If we could sit on a sunny patio and chat leisurely over iced coffees tomorrow, I’d want to ask you, “What’s the best part and worst part of this season of your life?” What would you say, dear one? What’s making your life painfully difficult right now? And what’s making it beautiful and sweet? We might shed a few tears together as you answer. Some seasons feel more bitter than beautiful when you’re in the midst of them. Or maybe I’d laugh with joy as you describe a long-awaited hope fulfilled. We’d talk fast and excitedly, and the time would fly by. Most likely, though, we’d do a little of both, wouldn’t we? Some tears. Some laughter. As Elisabeth Elliot wrote, “Rainbows are made of sunlight and rain.” So in lieu of that patio conversation, I’ve settled into my couch tonight with a cup of chamomile tea, to share a few things I’m reminding myself these days: This season of life is a gift. The precious and the painful, they are entwined by gracious hands that never stop doing us good. The very thing that brings us to our knees, makes us weep in despair, or feels like our undoing—that is an integral part of the gift of this season. In time (His time), we will see that our desperation was the beginning of our deliverance. Sometimes the bitter aspects of life can overshadow the beautiful. Don’t miss out on the joys of this season. Years ago I had a young friend who was married to a faithful man who loved her and provided lavishly for her. She hated working and wanted nothing more than to get pregnant. She griped constantly. Her husband made it possible for her to quit her job, but even then she was miserable. Soon she became pregnant and gave birth to gorgeous twins. But she couldn’t stop complaining about how easy working used to be and how hard being a mom was now. In every season she had neglected to enjoy the gifts God gave her, so when she finally got what she wanted—she was shockingly unhappy. Don’t compare seasons. We’ve all lived through those long winter months of life when the dearest ones around us seem to be enjoying a balmy summer. Their joy may feel like the final blow to your hurting heart, and it takes all the grace you can muster to rejoice with them. But seasons change, sometimes quickly, and someday they too will know their winters while you celebrate your summer. In this mysterious dance of seasons, we learn to offer both comfort and joy to one another, each in our turn. Some seasons last a long time, but none lasts forever. Ecclesiastes 3:1 says, “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.” Singleness was a long season. But my twelve-year wait came to a sudden end, and in the blink of an eye a new season was upon me, with brand-new joys and challenges. Psalm 116:7 says, “Return, O my soul, to your rest; for the Lord has dealt bountifully with you.” So dear one, here’s what I keep preaching to myself: 1. Embrace today’s hardships. They are gifts from God. 2. Embrace today’s joys. They are gifts from God. 3. Stop playing the comparison game. It robs me of these gifts from God. 4. This season will soon pass. Don’t miss out on these gifts from God. This article also appears on TrueWoman.com.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao August 9, 2014

person sitting in front of body of water

Community

To the barren one (on Mother’s Day)

This Sunday, you will not be far from my thoughts, dear one. With every fiber of your being you long to be a mom. You were made for motherhood, and everything within you cries out against your barrenness. I remember. I was 35 when I gave birth to my first and only child. Due to some health complications, I can’t bear any more children. If I’d scripted the story of my life, I would have had my first at 24 (he’d be 17 now) and at least two or three children after that. Instead, my fruitful years were spent celebrating everyone else’s babies—one birth announcement and baby shower after another. Whatever could I do with empty hands that were made to hold children? God met me in my emptiness with strong words that forever changed me. He sang Isaiah 54 over my longings, and as I clung to this Scripture through those waiting years, its truths were engraved into the marrow of my soul. Sing, O barren one, who did not bear; break forth into singing and cry aloud, you who have not been in labor. For the children of the desolate one will be more than the children of her who is married, says the Lord. Could my childless life truly be as rich and full as my friends who had children? Could I sit through yet another baby shower or Mother’s Day assured of some glorious purpose in my pain? God said so, right there in the pages of Scripture—so I took Him at His Word. I poured out my life and love into my teenage students and college-age girls. Over the course of my single years, I opened up my heart and home, discipling women, counseling kids in crisis, and leading Bible studies where God showed up in spectacular ways. I wasn’t always faithful to invest well, and sometimes my sorrow and longing overshadowed my ministries, but by God’s grace I began to feel the weighty truth of Isaiah 54—although I was not yet a mother, I had dozens of spiritual children. I felt rich. Unspeakably, filthy rich. But there was yet another aspect of Isaiah 54, a far scarier aspect that compelled my heart to continue hoping for children of my own. While I felt wealthy with spiritual children, the longing for marriage and motherhood wouldn’t go away. I didn’t quite know what to do with these words: Enlarge the place of your tent, and let the curtains of your habitations be stretched out; do not hold back; lengthen your cords and strengthen your stakes. For you will spread abroad to the right and to the left, and your offspring will possess the nations… Although God wasn’t signing on the dotted line, promising to give me my own flesh-and-blood, I wanted my heart to be full of faith that He could. I wanted to hope past the taunting tick-tock of my biological clock. I wanted to believe that with just one word He could turn my barrenness into fruitfulness as He had for Sarah, Rachel, Hannah, Ruth, and Elizabeth. Hope is scary, but it is our lifeblood. So I fought to cultivate hope first and foremost in Him, and then a lesser hope that He would one day fulfill the longings of my heart for children. The years passed by, and while I continued to bear spiritual children, marriage and motherhood still eluded me. Isaiah 54 sustained me again and again: 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 [singleness, barrenness] you will remember no more. For your Maker is your Husband, the Lord of hosts is His name… I have a friend who waited till she was 41 to become a mother. I have other friends who continue to wait, well into their thirties, forties and even fifties. I had a lesser wait at 35. But those lessons learned while sitting in church every Mother’s Day, as long-stemmed roses passed me by and I sat alone while seemingly every other woman stood to be appreciated—those lessons will never be forgotten. And so this weekend, I’m thinking of you, dear one. Although we may never meet on this side of eternity, I’m praying that your Maker, who is your Husband, will grant you hope in Himself, faith that He can do the impossible, and the blessing of many spiritual children. Sing, O barren one… for you are precious and fruitful and honored in His eyes.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao May 17, 2014

Grief

Moriah {How Abraham worshiped}

He was old when the promise came, and it pierced through a lifetime of hope deferred. It was an unreasonable promise, laughable at best. (Both he and his wife took turns laughing.) But he believed. Against all hope, in hope he believed. And then twenty-five more years passed…. But the One who had promised was faithful, and when the believing man was 100 years old, he finally held the promise in his arms—a beautiful baby boy, a long-awaited son made in his likeness. He held him, his wrinkly skin pressed up against silky smooth skin, aged eyes mesmerized by tiny blinking ones. He named him Isaac. And all the love stored up during those anguishing years of waiting became a torrential downpour of fatherly adoration. No one could have loved his son more. The baby grew into a boy, and the father’s love grew into a legacy. And then the word came. A shocking, dreadful word. “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love… go to the land of Moriah… and offer him as a burnt offering.” It was a word from his God, the God who had first promised him a son. The God who had fulfilled the long-awaited promise. And the God who now demanded he give up what his heart loved most. “So Abraham rose.” At the command that surely made his heart melt like wax within him and his legs give way beneath him, HE ROSE TO OBEY. Without knowing that God would spare his son’s life, he set his face like flint toward Moriah, toward more grief than he could bear, and started the three-day journey to do the hardest thing he had ever done. Those three days must have felt like a thousand. When he arrived at Moriah, he didn’t give ear to the myriad reasons and emotions that screamed within him to turn back, to go home. With resolve he told the men who had accompanied him, “‘I and the boy will go over there and worship and come again to you.’ And Abraham took the wood of the burnt offering and laid it on Isaac his son. And he took in his hand the fire and the knife.” We’ll go over there and… WORSHIP?! The first time the word “worship” is used in Scripture is right here, smack dab in the middle of the most heart-wrenching, tenacious obedience ever. For Abraham, worship wasn’t an emotionally charged song nor was it spiritual head knowledge; it was an act of faith that put everything on the line because of who he believed God to be. What do I believe about God? Does it compel me to obey Him in a way that could be described as worship? Oh, that I would live the lesson I’m continually teaching my toddler: Obey right away, all the way, with a happy heart. There’s no counting to three in our home; we want our little man to spring into obedient action. Delayed obedience is just another way of saying, “I don’t really trust that you know what’s best for me, so I’m gonna do my own thing for a little while longer.” If I, in my flawed and finite motherhood, ask my son to obey me quickly, how can I not run to do the will of my Heavenly Father who loves me perfectly and never makes a mistake? When He asks me to surrender what is precious to me—even the little things such as my personal agenda for the day or my desire to be validated—do I hesitate? Make excuses? Say, “That’s something I need to work on…”? Or do I rise and go in obedience? Do I run to do the will of my Father? God’s intention was never for Isaac to die at the hand of his father. But Abraham didn’t know that as he raised the knife to slay his son. And what Abraham could never have imagined was that his obedience that day was a foreshadowing of a future day when God would kill his own Son, his “only Son…whom He loved” – so that we, who were dead in our sins, could live. What Abraham did know was that the God to whom he had wholly entrusted himself would provide what he needed at just the right moment. And He did. As Abraham raised his knife, God called out, “Do not lay your hand on the boy or do anything to him, for now I know that you fear God, seeing you have not withheld your son, your only son, from Me.” And there behind him was a ram. Dear one, your obedience today was the kind of worship that delights God. Perhaps it wasn’t a Moriah moment, maybe it felt small and insignificant, but it caught His eye and moved His heart. Or maybe it was a painful obedience and you had to lay Isaac on the altar…again. Oh, my friend, that was the most beautiful worship you could have given Him today. And He is worth it. You know that, and that’s why you obeyed. This week may our hearts and minds be so full of Him that we obey quickly, in such a way that God will say… “Look at how she worships.” Scriptures referenced: Romans 4; 1 Thessalonians 5:24; Nehemiah 9; Genesis 12-22; Ephesians 2:5.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao January 12, 2014