And yet—even as I grieve my weaknesses and the mess they make—I know I wouldn’t trade what I’ve experienced in Jesus for less brokenness. Would I really wish away the worst of me if it meant missing out on the best of him?

It’s the fragility woven into every fiber of my being (mentally, emotionally, relationally, physically) that sends me running into his arms time and again—arms I fall into, saying, “Jesus, I can’t, but you can. I’m weak but you’re strong.”

It’s why I’ll never stop desperately needing him this side of heaven. He knows that my need will press me further into him, into his arms that hold me fast. Colossians 1:17 promises that he will hold me together—he will hold all the details of my life together—and being held together by God is life itself.

So how do I “run into his arms”? How do I find his strength in my weakness and experience him holding me together? Here are a few of the practical ways I do this:

I make time to regularly meet with him in his Word.

I make a habit of thanking him (even for the smallest things).

I picture him both sitting on his throne (Revelation 4) and holding my hand (Psalm 73:23).

I pour out my heart to him, telling him everything, unedited.

I stay in close relationship with life-giving friends and family and a healthy church who point me to him.

I memorize Scripture so I can hear his voice throughout my day, no matter where I am or what’s going on around me.

I confess my sin to him.

I ask him for what I need.

I sing songs that wake up my sluggish heart for him.

And when I can’t do any of these things, I simply cry, “Help!” And he has always, always answered that prayer. Generously. Stunningly.

I’m posting this with the prayer that however broken or weak you might feel today, you will experience the strong arms of Jesus holding you together, and you will know the comfort and joy of his nearness.

He is here, and his arms are strong.

For further encouragement from Scripture: Isaiah 41:10, Psalm 73:23-24, Psalm 6:9.

The post A few thoughts on weakness… appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

You don’t have to share my 25-year history with Depression to have found him on your own doorstep this year. There have been enough oppressive realities in our 2020 world to bring him knocking on anyone’s door. So if you or a loved one have felt the darkness of his presence settling in on you, I would love to speak a bit of encouragement into your heart today. Below I share a few of the ways I’ve managed Depression’s disruptive presence—and found God’s breathtaking goodness in the process. (Of course, these aren’t meant as a cure-all or substitute for professional care and medication; they are simply my own testimony of a broken but beautiful journey.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Depression comes knocking, I tell myself these four things:

Be gentle with your weakness.

In the past, I’ve felt fear at the onset of depression, shame for being prone to it in the first place, and even guilt for not being able to “snap out of it.” But over time I’ve experienced the gentleness of Jesus’ heart toward me in my weakness, and this has taught me to wrap my arms around my human frailty and say,

“Okay, here we are again. This depression makes sense considering my circumstances. I know Jesus is with me, and I know this darkness won’t last.”

The psalmist David models this acceptance-of-weakness in many of his psalms, such as this one:

Although my spirit is weak within me, you know my way. (142:3)

And Thomas Watson put it this way:

How is a weak Christian able, not only to endure affliction, but to rejoice in it? He is upheld by the arms of the Almighty. ‘My strength is made perfect in weakness.’ (2 Corinthians 12:9)

Whatever reveals our need for God and strips us of our arrogant self-reliance is a mercy. We experience more of Christ’s power in us when we are weak, and that is an indescribable gift. These days, instead of bracing myself at the first sign of depression, I gently welcome my frailty as one of the surest ways to experience more of Jesus.

Keep a grateful heart.

During a bout of depression, I’m prone to dark and gloomy thoughts. The difficult circumstances that summoned depression in the first place, now tempt me to drink deeply of their bitterness—and before I know it, everything about my life looks abysmal.

Again, the Psalms beautifully model for me how to move from a place of toxic negativity back to a place of peace and joy. The psalmists were incredibly raw and real about their bitterness, their pain, but they knew how to not get stuck there: they thanked God in the midst of the darkness, and their Godward praise changed their hearts. Look at how this works in Psalm 71—

Deliver me, my God, from the power of the wicked,
from the grasp of the unjust and oppressive.
For you are my hope, Lord God…

As my strength fails, do not abandon me.
For my enemies talk about me,
and those who spy on me plot together…
But I will hope continually
and will praise you more and more.

Your righteousness reaches the heights, God,
you who have done great things;
God, who is like you?
You caused me to experience
many troubles and misfortunes,
but you will revive me again.
You will bring me up again,
even from the depths of the earth.

My lips will shout for joy
when I sing praise to you
because you have redeemed me.
Therefore, my tongue will proclaim
your righteousness all day long.

The psalmist was oppressed by enemies, his strength was failing, and he had experienced “many troubles and misfortunes,”—but he hoped in God, he praised him (“more and more”!), he recalled the great things God had done for him. His heart was full of gratitude, so instead of nursing a grudge or griping, his lips shouted for joy.

Stay connected to your people.

During depression, it’s easy for me to withdraw from the people I need the most. I’m mentally and emotionally tapped out, so the thought of making room for meaningful relationships is exhausting. But it’s precisely what I need, so I’ve learned to keep a few friends and family close no matter how I’m feeling—and to stay engaged with my son and husband who are such a source of strength to me. I don’t always do this well (some days of depression find me “checked out” or withdrawn), but my goal is to remain relational with a close circle of friends and family through the duration of my darkness.

And let me quickly add the obvious—that in the midst of quarantines and social distancing this year, staying connected has been more difficult than ever. Zoom and Marco Polo apps are poor substitutes for the real thing. It takes far more work to be in relationship and feels far less fulfilling than pre-quarantine. But the dangers of isolation are real, so the effort is always worthwhile. As both King David and the Apostle Paul testified, the people of God are our joy and we need them!

“Indeed you are our glory and joy!” (1 Thessalonians 2:20)

“As for the holy people who are in the land, they are the excellent ones. All my delight is in them.” (Psalm 16:3)

My capacity to remain joyfully resilient during depression is largely dependent upon my connection to the very ones who bring me great joy!

Keep going to God.

Depression tends to snuff out my desire for prayer and Scripture. Passages of the Bible that typically would make my heart sing, fall flat—and my prayers sound hollow. I don’t have the same experience of God’s presence. At times he feels a million miles away.

In the past I’ve let this numbness distance me from the One I love. But through the years, I’ve resolved to not let depression keep me from Jesus—but instead to let it teach me how to sit in his presence, patiently waiting on him. I open his word. I tell him how I feel. I keep showing up and listening. While I may not have the capacity for intense inductive Bible study, the daily ritual of simply praying through a Psalm or steeping myself in a small book like Amos or Philippians is a ritual that will soon lead me back into the joy of the Lord. The psalmist described this experience beautifully when he said,

My life is down in the dust;
give me life through your word.
I told you about my life
and you answered me… (119:25-26)

FROM STRENGTH TO STRENGTH

Depression’s visits once scared and overwhelmed me, but now I see them as a conduit of blessing. His presence in my life has been used by God to grow in me a tenderness toward weakness, a deeper gratitude, an enduring love for my people, and a resolve to keep going to God. With a full heart I say with the psalmist,

Happy are the people whose strength is in you,
whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.
As they pass through the Valley of Baca [the Valley of Tears]
they make it a source of spring water;
even the autumn rain will cover it with blessings.
They go from strength to strength
till each appears before God in Zion.
(Psalm 84:5-7)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

This article also appears on Revive Our Hearts.

The post When Depression comes knocking appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

You were a bloodied and abandoned newborn, left in an open field to die.

Rejected.

Unloved.

At your birth no one cried, “It’s a girl!” No one cleaned you or comforted you or nursed you. They looked at you, covered in your afterbirth and blood, and tossed you out like refuse.

But as you writhed and wailed and gasped for breath…. He walked by.

He slowed His steps, looked at you and said, “Live!” He loved you with a fierce yet tender love, an unreasonable love. A foolish love. He pulled you out of the heap of blood and briers you lay in, He wrapped you in His arms, and He gave you life.

“Live!” was the song He sang over you as He dressed your wounds and clothed you as His own daughter—as royalty. He lavished you with clothes and jewelry and food and beauty treatments as had never been seen before.

You were His bride, the apple of His eye, a queen perfect in beauty. And now you were to sing His song of life over others (so they too might live).

You loved Him back with an adoring love. Your heart beat happy with salvation and you could not stop singing His song of life.

But soon you heard the sound of your own voice over His. Oh how sweet you sang! You caught sight of your own reflection and became enamored by your beauty, your dress, your privileged position.

And you forgot.

You forgot what He looked like, what He sounded like…. what He’d saved you from.

You danced to the song of yourself. Your song deafened you to the cries of the despised and dying around you. They cried out for Life, but you offered them only yourself. (You, once ruined as they are now.)

Now the bloodied rise up and cry “Death!” and you, so consumed with self, act surprised. You resent them in their dirty desperation and point a fair finger at their misery.

How dare they not love you!

Do you not see? Can you not understand? Your own song will not do, faithless bride. Your pageantry and airs will not suffice. The dying need Life himself.

Oh that you would run back to Him, cling to Him as in those first days of love, and let Him sing His song over you—that they might hear and believe.

How will they believe if they have never heard?

You are chosen for this, beloved one. You were saved to go save. The Rescuer is slow to anger and abounding in love, not wanting any to perish but all to “Live!”

So return to your First Love. Remember what you were before He rescued you. Hide yourself in Him till your heart beats with His, till your ears are full of His voice and your eyes are alight with His love.

Then go and sing His song to the dying:

Live!

Scriptures referenced: Ezekiel 16, Ephesians 5, Jonah 4:2, 2 Peter 3:9, 1 Timothy 2:1-4, Zephaniah 3:17, Revelation 2:2-5, Romans 10:14-17

The post Ezekiel 16 appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

And Earl Roland. He was a hunched old man who loved to pray. In the absence of an acceptable singing voice he’d mastered the art of whistling, and he whistled loud and strong through the hymns we sang in church. So to honor him we whistled “A Mighty Fortress” at his memorial service.

I remember little old women in polyester who fawned over me, and the wrinkled man in a wheelchair who had a big black Bible and said, “But God…!” (Because he knew stuff the rest of us didn’t yet understand.)

But it wasn’t just the old and the weak that made a strong impression on me.

Roland and Naomi were seminary students in their late twenties when I was a teen. They never missed an opportunity to love on me. When I graduated from high school and no one else my age was left at church, they invited me to join their young married small group. Roland and Naomi wanted children but their arms remained empty. I watched them navigate barrenness with quiet trust, and it changed me.

And there were friendships forged over food. My parents set the stage for rich and relaxed community by hosting myriad meals, even on a shoestring budget. Neighbors, newcomers to church, out-of-town friends, they all gathered around our table and lit up our home. Missionaries-on-furlough ate pot roast and told stories from the field. Giddy newlyweds talked of love over casserole. Sharing meals with people seemed as natural as, well…. eating…. and left me with an incurable taste for joy.

And what I couldn’t have put into words then, but I understand to the marrow of my bones now, is that community is life.

It grows you up.

It anchors you down.

It humbles you.

It heals you.

It’s laughter.

It’s tears.

It’s the warp and woof of our existence.

Now I’m the one with a family, and we’re living in the fastest-paced generation in the history of mankind. Despite some physical limitations that naturally slow us down, our family can still find ourselves dashing here and there, squinting sideways at our calendar to see how we’ll squeeze in another birthday party or baby shower, and communicating instantaneously with dozens of people in the course of one day.

My husband and I have to regularly fight against the tug of too much. We keep asking ourselves, “How do we pursue authentic, consistent, unhurried relationships? How do we do this in a way that builds up our family and doesn’t splinter us in a dozen different directions?”

How can we make sure our son doesn’t miss rubbing shoulders with the Miss Mosses and Earl Rolands of this world? The old and the weak, we miss them when we’re in too much of a hurry.

We haven’t stumbled upon any easy answers. Community looks so different for each one of us, in each new season of our lives. And as soon as we think we’ve found our groove and figured it all out, life changes. The mom with three small children, the overseas missionary, the 50-year-old with aging parents, the one who’s chronically sick—they’ll tell you there’s no cookie-cutter shape for community.

But one thing’s for certain: we need each other. We can’t work through our yuck, see our blindspots, grow in grace, and experience joy on an island (no matter how exotic it might be). And while God alone is more than enough for us—and He should be our first and greatest relationship—He knows we will love and understand Him more when we’re living in authentic relationship with others.

So we prioritize it: Be with others. Set food on the table and open the front door. Tell each other our stories. Confess sin to a friend. Meet a tangible need. Laugh together. Pray together. Sit quietly with a grieving one. Seek the wisdom of older friends. Forgive each other. Say yes to an offer of help.

And say “no.” A lot. Say no to relationships that bring out the worst in us and distract us from God’s purposes (Proverbs 13:20). Say no to pleasing everyone. Say no to doing it all. I’m not sure if it’s just me, but a too-large social circle and a bleeding calendar are some of my greatest hindrances to loving others with authenticity and joy.

I’m so grateful for the kaleidoscope of people who shaped my world when I was a child, and those who continue to shape it now. I pray that someday my son will also tell of how he was molded not only by us, his parents, but also by the people we did life with: the young and the old, the weak and the strong.

I pray his identity in Christ will grow within the context of community.

Dear one, this world feels half crazy, doesn’t it? But our God has not left us alone. He is with us and He has given us everything we need for life and godliness—including His people, “the excellent ones in whom is all my delight.”

The post We need each other appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

I’ve been given the gift of chronic illness. And while I would love to reject such a gift, it has been my invitation into a thousand moments of grace—to feel where I was once numb, see where I was once blind, hear where I was once deaf. It’s been my merciful undoing and my gracious remaking.

You see, in my own strength, pain-free and healthy, I am Pride and Self-sufficiency and The Greatest People Pleaser. But here, in the throes of weakness, I am forced into postures of humility and dependency upon God. This brokenness has surfaced every cranky, weary, impatient, mean, insecure, fearful, shortsighted aspect of my character. So I cry out to Him.

And I find Him.

Why Healing Isn’t Everything

Over the course of these seven years of illness, I’ve been prayed for and prayed over by countless people. I’ve seen medical doctors and homeopathic specialists. I’ve changed the way I eat and exercise…multiple times. I’ve made progress and then I’ve regressed—taken five steps forward and four steps back. Because sometimes God says “no” or “not yet” or “only in part” so that we learn how to sit in silence a little longer, till our heart is on a first-name basis with Surrender and we go deeper with Jesus.

These aches and pains and frailties, they are a telescope to see distant glory up close. The God of the Universe is near to the brokenhearted and He lifts up those who are bowed down. And that nearness is my good. He says, “I see. I hear. I care. And I am with you. I have everything you need for this.”

Too Much and Not Enough

In every season of our lives, there comes a time when we feel that God has given us “too much” and we’re “not enough.” We look at our circumstances and then at our resources—and we despair.

Why do You push me so far past my limits, Lord?

When I was young and healthy and had the world on a string, I envisioned a life of monumental and celebrated ministry. But on this side of weakness, I’ve been surprised by the joys of small and simple servanthood. When I’m tempted to bemoan my limitations I remember that God can feed more than 5,000 people with just two fish and five loaves of bread. My weakness serves to highlight His strength. I feel as if He regularly poses the same question to me as He did to stammering, fearful Moses: “What is that in your hand?” But instead of a staff, I have a 4-year-old son to love and disciple; a laptop and an hour to write an encouraging word; dinner, doubled in portion, so we can share with friends; a chair in my living room and an ear to listen to a hurting young woman.

On the weeks of better health, I do a little more. On the weeks of bad health, I do a lot less. I’ve found that God is happy to be with me no matter how I feel or how much I can get done.

So while I still ask Him to heal me, I also thank Him for the miracles He’s working through illness. In the most unlikely, unexpected ways He has been carving out unique ministry for me, increasing my joy in Him and in others, and working all things together for my good. It doesn’t look anything like it was supposed to—but it’s beautiful this way.

Dare I say, it’s better this way? It’s better that I wasn’t healed quickly like we all wanted. It’s better that I can’t praise a doctor or medicine or methodology for my healing. It’s better that my marriage and motherhood have been forged in weakness. It’s better that I have needed Him so desperately.

We are made for perfection, aren’t we, dear one? We are made for eternity. This chafing against weakness makes sense. But someday soon (sooner than I can imagine), I will be made perfect, and so will you. And all these trivial maladies—these light and momentary troubles—will be forgotten in the Glory that far outweighs them all. We will run and not grow weary, walk and not grow faint. We’ll see our Healer face-to-face, and He will wipe away every tear from our eyes.

Whether your struggle is with chronic illness or some other form of weakness, God is not wasting it. He’s fulfilling the purposes He’s planned for you since the beginning of time. He sees, He hears, He knows, and He cares. May you experience the gift of His nearness and goodness today.

Scriptures referenced: Isaiah 40; Psalm 73; 2 Corinthians 4:17; 2 Corinthians 12:9; Revelation 21:4; 2 Corinthians 1:3-5; Psalm 34:18; Mark 6:34-44; Exodus 4:2

The post The gift of illness appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

Compared with most people around the world and throughout history, I am spoiled rotten.

These comforts and conveniences are a gift, yes; but they can also be a grief. Gift because God appoints us our particular place in history, geography, and culture (Acts 17:26-27)—so this very location and set of circumstances are from Him. But gift quickly turns to grief when my passion for eternal realities is dampened by an all-needs-met existence. This physical wealth can numb my soul, and I’m daily at risk of living in spiritual poverty.

And what good is it to have everything I need at my fingertips, yet lose the very essence of who I’m created to be? (Luke 9:25) I was made to love and serve others for Christ, to joyfully spread God’s fame in my little corner of the world and beyond.

Whenever I sense this sluggishness of soul—a craving for all things convenient, a reticence to do hard things—I revisit “old friends,” Christian men and women who have long since passed into glory but whose lives have indelibly shaped my own. Even as a young teenager, I was spellbound by their stories. Reading Christian biographies became the kindling of a fire in my soul that would spark countless decisions and desires for years to come.

These were real people with real frailties and failings (sometimes embarrassingly so), but they lived in such a way that showed the surpassing greatness of Christ. Their faith was rugged and resilient, unashamedly rooted in the hope of the gospel. They considered their sufferings and sacrifices well worth the eternal rewards awaiting them, and proved it by giving up all manner of comfort, success, even life itself.

They didn’t expect life to be easy, fulfilling, or successful. They expected to lay down their lives for the sake of their God and His Kingdom work.

It’s hard to conceive of a life of selflessness, of utter self-denial, in a culture that promotes its antithesis. We vehemently value our autonomy, our rights, our health, our comforts. We’re tempted to live in the superficial and act as if this is our permanent home. For the sake of our souls, we need a bigger view, an historical perspective, and the company of those who have gone before us.

However, Christian history has largely (and sadly) been relegated to theological seminaries and Bible colleges, and most of us rely wholly on modern advice and methodologies, neglecting a wealth of sound counsel and proven wisdom in what Hebrews 11 calls “so great a cloud of witnesses.” If we were honest, many of us would admit that our culture, our peers, and social media hold more sway on our life trajectory than does any influence pre-1980.

Today there are thousands of blogging, book-writing Christians on the scene, and many of them have good things to say. Biblical insights to share. Counsel to impart. But a diet consisting largely of blogs and books written by modern-day men and women who have lived a mere three, four, or five decades in affluent America—it’s a recipe for spiritual malnutrition. We’re glutted with writing on God’s love, our personal griefs and journey to recovery, applying the gospel to our modern-day messes, and buzzwords like community, authenticity, and wholeness. But when is the last time you read an author who wrote like this?

Nothing will seem too much to have done or suffered, when, in the end, we see Him and the marks of His wounds; nothing will ever seem enough. Even the weariness of deferred hope will be forgotten, in the joy that is not of earth.” – Amy Carmichael, 1867-1951

Or this?

I remember, when I have preached at different times in the country, and sometimes here, that my whole soul has agonized over men, every nerve of my body has been strained and I could have wept my very being out of my eyes and carried my whole frame away in a flood of tears, if I could but win souls.” – Charles Spurgeon, 1834-1892

Not only does reading Christian biographies put iron into our souls, it is also extremely practical for daily life—giving us a richer, broader perspective on relationships, education, career, marriage, parenting, spiritual disciplines, politics, and ministry. As C.S. Lewis said, it gives us eyes to see “the controversies of the moment in their proper perspective.” Lewis argued passionately for the reading of old books, for

My own eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad of eyes, but it is still I who see.”

These flawed-but-faithful believers are not meant to be the object of our gaze, but rather, they serve as a looking-glass through which we see Christ more clearly. Our sights are lifted beyond our present circumstances and we are strengthened to run our course well.

God has gifted us with a cloud of witnesses—because our own eyes are not enough. Don’t let the testimony of these lives be lost on you. Walk with them awhile, learn from their mistakes, consider their counsel, imitate their love and obedience to God.

To encourage us in this pursuit, the True Woman blog is featuring a new biographical series called “25 Women Who Impacted the World for Christ.” These inspiring life sketches are posted on the blog every Thursday. 

The post Read biographies to strengthen your soul appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

A few days ago, I drove up a winding hill, fresh after fall’s first storm, alone in my car; and the tears started. They were longing to spill out before Him, to be seen by Him. Despite my daily Bible study, I felt like I hadn’t experienced Him in weeks.

My soul was made for this One. Everything about me—my personality, my frailties, my history, my hurts, my hopes—it’s all meant to sing His song, to spill out the melody of His gospel on those around me.

But a season of crisis and nonstop needs can dry up the soul until the only thing that seems to be spilling out is a monumental mess.

Can you relate?

These days I’m easily given to a heart that’s crabby, negative, and ungrateful. I often feel exhausted and numb, and I find myself shifting into autopilot in my marriage and motherhood.

And yet, He’s still wooing me.

He’s still calling me by name and whispering, “You are mine.”

Dear one, I wasn’t made for this American pace of life. I wasn’t made to be a miracle wife and mom all while keeping a calendar that hemorrhages with busyness. I’m not hard-wired to press through another day on nothing but old fumes.

I was made to know Life, to consider everything else a loss compared to the breathtaking beauty of knowing Him.

Please hear my heart: I was absolutely made to work hard, to invest my time well, to lay down my life for those around me. I was meant to serve in such a way that requires supernatural strength and, at times, leaves me physically and emotionally exhausted. Jesus modeled this for us and commissioned us to do the same.

WORK FLOWING FROM REST

But that kind of meaningful work and eternal investing must flow from an abiding rest—the kind of rest I can find only in Him. He modeled this for us too.

And squeezing in a “quiet time” during my son’s short nap each day just doesn’t cut it. I need to find rhythms of rest in my weeks and days:

to say “no” to even the best of activities so that I can say “yes” to Him

to savor thoughts of Christ, again and again throughout my day

to post Scriptures on the walls of my home, so I can stop and read and believe what is true in the midst of a day that feels like “too much”

to prioritize my calendar so that it points to His sufficiency, not mine

I truly don’t know how to do this yet and may not for many years to come. But even my pursuit is precious in His eyes. And when I feel like no rest can be found in this season of nonstop needs and ministry, He continues to show up and say, “This is the way; walk in it.” As I keep His Word before me, it’s as if a little lamp lights my way and leads me into His rest.

MAKING REST HAPPEN

Are you weary and exhausted, dear one? Are you numb? Have you been in crisis mode for too long? May I encourage you in the same way I’m encouraging myself today? We are not victims of our circumstances—we can make space for rest, no matter what season of life we’re in. We can know Him in the most mundane or insane moments of our day.

The holiday season is fast upon us, but He is even more important than the coming festivities. This month, what if we booked a few sessions of REST? What if we dared to clear our calendar—somewhere, anywhere—to make room for Him?

What if the rhythm of our lives sang with the hymnist,

Ever lift Thy face upon me, as I work and wait for Thee;
Resting ‘neath Thy smile, Lord Jesus, earth’s dark shadows flee.
Brightness of my Father’s glory, sunshine of my Father’s face,
Keep me ever trusting, resting, fill me with Thy grace.

Dear one, because Christ became our eternal Sabbath rest, we are no longer slaves to temporal weariness. Body and soul may grow exhausted, but as we rest in Him, we move from strength to strength.

{I originally wrote this article in November 2014. It also appears on TrueWoman.com.}

The post Finding rhythms of rest (even through the holidays) appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

We thought we knew what life should look like back then. The beautiful and the gifted—those were the ones God put on platforms and used in mighty ways. Because she was the whole package, Lisa and her music ministry would be unstoppable.

But He was scripting such a different story. We could not have guessed what was going on behind the scenes and what the next two decades of life would hold. But He knew, and He was holding it all together in love.

Although Lisa and I shared a propensity for music, coffee, and laughter, it was eventually our brokenness that bound our hearts together. I began to see a strength in Lisa that I could no longer attribute to beauty or giftedness. In unexpected suffering and disappointment she was pressing herself into God, and I saw Him. I could relate to her because she was weak, like me; but unlike me, she could poignantly express what was going on in her heart. I listened and learned.

We talked of love and waiting and marriage. And I watched her fall in love with and marry the best man she’d ever known—her lifelong friend, Michael Hamel. It was now Lisa Hamel, not Lisa Kolbo. But it wasn’t just her name that changed.

After six years of marriage, God gifted her with her firstborn—a beautiful boy with special needs. This former campus celebrity was now quietly caring for an autistic child behind closed doors. Day in, day out. No applause could be heard but His.

And Lisa went deeper with Jesus.

And as she did, she took us with her. Sure, her giftedness and gorgeousness could wow us, but her suffering by faith with eyes fixed on Jesus would forever change us.

Today my dear friend turns 40 years old, and I’m reflecting on God’s kindness—to her… to me through her. I’m thanking Him for derailing small dreams, for saying no to some prayers, and for birthdays that mark His faithfulness.

Happy birthday, dear Lis. Your life has made mine unspeakably rich.

The post On your 40th appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

Depression first found me when I was an idealistic 19-year-old with plans to change the world. Panic attacks and obsessive thought patterns soon followed, and the promise and excitement of my 20s was to be often overshadowed by mental and emotional angst.

I’d grown up reading the biographies of dead saints: men and women who gave up everything—from worldly comforts to their very lives—in order to love Jesus and love others. My young life was immeasurably shaped by the compelling examples of these courageous believers who accomplished great feats for the Kingdom of God.

I had known they were broken too. Many had suffered cyclical depression as I was now experiencing in my 20s, and I clung to their stories of God’s faithfulness in their brokenness. I needed to know that others had walked this path before me and still been fruitful and effective in living out God’s purposes for them.

But 17 years after my first depression—now a wife and mother at 36—yet another season of crippling panic attacks, insomnia, and darkness was upon me. The long-awaited joys of marriage and motherhood were finally mine, but I was struggling to string together three rational thoughts. I wrestled with God. Why had I waited 15 years for such joys, simply to watch them snuffed out by this demon depression?

It was then that I first laid eyes on an old paperback that would serve as the light at the end of my tunnel: Genius, Grief and Grace. The book boasted 11 case studies of saints, written by widely acclaimed British psychiatrist, Gaius Davies. I opened it with a kind of desperate hopefulness.

Many of the saints in these pages were already familiar to me. In fact, I felt as if I’d walked miles upon miles in their shoes through my years of poring over their stories. But these accounts promised a more clinical look at their sufferings, temperaments, and tendencies. Perhaps here I would see that “even the flaws in the prism of personality may demonstrate, in a special way, aspects of God’s grace.”

That is what I longed to know—that I wasn’t incurably crazy. That even my tendency to depression and my personality flaws could be used to God’s glory. I believed it to be true, but in these pages I would see it proven as true.

Through tears, I read of Martin Luther’s panic attacks and scrupulosity, as well as his chronic illness. I not only resonated with his weaknesses, but I also felt hope at Davies’ commentary:

“It is not surprising that . . . he often experienced his inner strength as greater at times of physical weakness.”

I could relate to that. Even in this dark season I saw God powerfully at work in and through me.

Strangely, my weary heart soared to read that John Bunyan suffered an obsessional disorder (where “the person seems compelled to suffer the presence of thoughts and feelings that he or she would like to disown, but cannot”). This author of The Pilgrim’s Progress and 59 other books—a man of genius and incomparable imaginative powers—was at times riddled with “a perplexed and despairing mind.”

By this point, Davies had me captivated. His tender and tactful treatment of both the heroic feats and the intrinsic frailties of these saints was a balm to my own feeble heart.

The account of Lord Shaftesbury (the Englishman who helped bring an end to industrial child abuse) made me catch my breath:

“He was by all accounts abnormally sensitive, and he was described as being without that extra skin needed to be tough in politics. But his heart drove him on, and his very clever brain and his iron will made him win against heavy odds.”

Being too sensitive myself, and often placed in situations where I could have used a thicker skin, I rejoiced at Shaftesbury’s example: press on even when you’re not naturally qualified for the work God has called you to.

I wish I had time and space to highlight the stories of Christina Rosetti, C. S. Lewis, Frances Havergal and five other giants of the faith, as sketched by the compassionate and competent hand of Dr. Gaius Davies.

Dark seasons can be used as tools in God’s hands. Before modern medicine and diagnoses were available, both psychological and physiological disorders went largely untreated. Yet God was in even these unresolved issues. Illness and angst were tools wielded in his perfect hands, to do his children good and bring himself glory. Even with the unprecedented medical resources available to us today, God sometimes allows us to linger in physical and mental brokenness so that we know and love him more, and fulfill his purposes in our lives.

While I will never experience the genius, success, and acclaim of these world-changers, I do have the same great Spirit living powerfully within me—to transform me into his image, “from one degree of glory to another.”

As Bunyan said of Luther’s writing, so my heart says of Genius, Grief and Grace: “I found my condition in his experience, so largely and profoundly handled, as if his book had been written out of my own heart…”

**This article was originally posted on December 9, 2014, and also appears on ERLC.com.

The post When darkness seems to hide His face appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

I’d always loved flying, but this airplane, with all my worldly belongings crammed into the luggage compartment below me, symbolized the death of my dreams. Just two months before I’d scored a job as an editor on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., but a 3:00-a.m. trip to the ER had changed everything.

Now suddenly I was on my way home to California minus my health, car, and job. I looked out the window as my dream life vanished beneath me.

In the midst of my daze and despair, God began stirring my heart to chat with the passenger sitting beside me. I discovered that Rachel was a Jewish girl from San Francisco and was deeply skeptical of Christians. We talked for the majority of our cross-country flight, and although I can’t remember my specific words, I keenly recall sharing how my life plans had just crumbled around me and I had no idea what was in store for my future.

And I clearly shared the gospel and the hope I had in Christ.

I watched as her heart softened before my eyes. If ever I’ve witnessed a spiritual transformation, it was on that plane. Rachel was receptive to what I said and told me she’d never before heard Christ explained in such a way.

I haven’t always seized those opportunities. It’s with remorse that I admit I’ve missed a thousand chances to share the gospel with unbelievers. It’s so easy for me to immerse myself in safe and comfortable ministries that I’ve often failed to stick out my neck for Christ, to boldly share His good news with the lost ones around me.

So He faithfully sends me seasons of desperation and disappointment, to teach me to center my life on His gospel, His glory.

David and the Cave of Adullam

In 1 Samuel we read of an obscure shepherd boy named David, the youngest of eight brothers, who is catapulted into greatness: he lands a dream job, achieves a royal marriage, enjoys national fame and glory, and receives the divine promise of a future kingship.

Oh, and did you know that “he was ruddy and had beautiful eyes and was handsome”?

David had it all. He was living the dream life.

And then a sudden reversal of fortunes…

David is forced to flee for his life when the king who once fawned over him, now—fueled with jealousy—seeks to kill him. David runs and takes refuge in a cave.

A cave.

Things couldn’t get much worse. Word spreads that David the giant-slayer, David of whose fame was sung and danced in the streets, David the king’s son-in-law—is now David the hunted man taking refuge in the Cave of Adullam.

And guess who shows up to see him?

“Everyone who was in distress, and everyone who was in debt, and everyone who was bitter in soul, gathered to him.” We read that his family was there as well. (Could King Saul have been watching their land in hopes that David might seek refuge back home?)

“And David became captain over them. And there were with him about four hundred men.”

Four hundred distressed, bankrupt, bitter men.

So what did David do with a cave and a company of disgruntled men?

Amazingly enough, fugitive David further endangered himself in order to care for others:

• He left his hideout to seek refuge for his parents with the king of Moab;
• He protected the priest Abiathar’s life;
• He attacked the Philistines to save the Israelites of Keilah. (His men warned him that such an attack would expose his whereabouts to Saul, which it did—but David obeyed the Lord and attacked anyway.)

The cave had brought David’s illustrious public life to a grinding halt. Back at the palace, David had wars to fight, royal banquets to attend, and music to perform before the king. But within the confines of a cave—surrounded by needy people who were desperate for help, comfort, and courage—David learned what pomp-and-circumstance could never have taught him: God was with him and had work for him to do even when his life was on the line.

Thirteen years ago, God stripped away the plans and dreams I had for my life, and because He did, a girl named Rachel got to hear about Jesus. My own neediness that chased me to Christ became the conduit to meet someone else’s needs. Dear one, your own disappointments today may very well be a divine opportunity to bring saving grace to a lost soul.

May we allow our “caves” to catapult us into ministries of compassion and courage so that our lives center on this one mission: to preach Christ to a world in need.

~ ~ ~

This article also appears on Kindred Grace.

The post An airplane and a cave appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.