Instead of offering a tidy, simplistic answer to this complicated query, I’m quick to admit that I live in a lot of mystery; there’s so much that I don’t understand. But what I do know is the only thing I need to know: the God who allows suffering in our lives is the God who became like us so He could suffer with and for us. He isn’t distant or indifferent to our pain. On the contrary, He experienced our pain in all its fulness so that one day He can destroy it forever.

In fact, smack dab in the middle of a terminal diagnosis, I’ve become increasingly convinced that God hates to see His children suffer. “He does not willingly afflict the sons of men” (Lam. 3:33) but is “a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, and relenting from disaster” (Jonah 4:2).

A gracious God, merciful, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love, relenting from disaster…

Ironically, those words were one man’s bitter complaint against God. The Israelite prophet Jonah resented God for forgiving the worst people on the planet (and the Israelites’ fiercest enemy), the Assyrians of Nineveh. God’s mercy was disturbing to Jonah, offensive to the point that he told God he wanted to die. “I knew you were like this! I knew you would do this!” he bellyached. To the self-righteous man, God’s kindness felt like terrible injustice.

Yet God was not being unjust. In forgiving the Assyrians, He wasn’t making light of their wickedness, nor was He overlooking the atrocities they’d committed against His people. Instead, He looked to the day when He would bear the Assyrians’ atrocities in His own body so that justice could be fully served—and really bad people could experience His extravagant goodness. (And religious hypocrites like Jonah could also be forgiven and experience His goodness.)

I tread gently here, because I don’t want to be reductionistic or trivialize any wrong or suffering. This topic is too much for this limited space and my simple brain. It deserves kind, wise, and safe dialogues; compassionate and listening ears; and the willingness to sit with each other in the grief.

And I haven’t even touched on the hardest stuff: What about children who are sexually abused? Human trafficking? Genocide? Slavery? We could go on and on, right? This is complex and touches on the tenderest places of our hearts…

Since I’m in over my head, let me make this less global and more personal:

I’m back on chemo again.

Again.

It’s a new drug as I stopped tolerating the old one. I’m on a drastically reduced dose and it’s still wreaking havoc on my body. There are no words for the weariness and the misery and the midnight wrestling—

I can’t do this anymore. But I can’t not do this…
My body can’t handle this anymore. But my body can’t handle the alternative either…

And this long journey would harden my heart if it weren’t for this: The God who continues to entrust this suffering to me is the God who…

was despised and rejected by men,
a man of suffering who knew what sickness was…
He himself bore our sicknesses,
and he carried our pains…
he was pierced because of our rebellion,
crushed because of our iniquities;
punishment for our peace was on him,
and we are healed by his wounds. (Isaiah 53:4-5)

Jesus bore in his body not only my sin but also the effects of living in a world under the curse of sin—including sickness and disease, loss and grief. And because He already carried this cancer—and ultimately defeated it when He busted out of that grave—I can face it with the rock-solid hope that He will heal me, fully and forever.

And because He was the Man of Sorrows who endured immeasurable grief, He can comfort and carry my husband and son—and He’ll carry us all till He welcomes us into that “destiny that reaches beyond this world to a kaleidoscope of wonders, enrichments, and delights” (1).

As Amy Carmichael said,

Sorrow is one of the things that are lent, not given. … Joy is given; sorrow is lent. … It is lent to us for just a little while that we may use it for eternal purposes. Then it will be taken away and everlasting joy will be our Father’s gift to us, and the Lord God will wipe away all tears from off all faces (Isa. 25:8). (2)

This is the God I’ve learned to trust when I don’t understand the terrible things of this life. He’s experienced what I have, what my loved ones have, what every sufferer has—and He has everything we need to face it all with peace and purpose, joy and hope. He doesn’t spare us the pain, but He joins us in it, until that day when He makes all things new.

Knowing this, I can take the question, “Why does God allow good things to happen to bad people?” and turn it on its head, humbly asking instead, “Why would God love bad people (like me) so much, He’d suffer and sacrifice Himself to give them every good thing—forever and ever?”

Jonah faulted God for being full of mercy and love. While he wanted to be on the receiving end of that kindness (see Jonah 2:2-7), he wanted to ban “the bad guys” from it. But here’s the thing about God’s love: it’s always shockingly extravagant. It defies our ideas of what’s just and fair. It sets its affections on the most unlikely people. It transforms the worst things that happen to us into countless gifts that can never be taken from us.

So, I can face another round of chemo this afternoon and all the side effects that follow. Even as my body takes another beating, I can laugh and enjoy my husband and son. I can live fully, looking for God’s many mercies today and laboring at the good works He’s given me to do—not because I’m strong, not because the suffering gets any easier—but because I’m loved by the One whose love is better than life itself (Psalm 63:3), the One who’s giving me more days so I can share that love with others….

Worth it. Oh is it ever worth it.

(1) J.I. Packer, Weakness is the Way, 92-93.

(2) Amy Carmichael, Edges of His Ways, p.230. 

The post Cancer Update 8.23.25 appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

The veil feels extra thin today… like gossamer or tulle. And while I may be living my best 90-year-old life right now (*snort*), it helps to know there’s a reality so much bigger and better than this present one—a fact that makes today deeply meaningful and worth living to the hilt.

I’m sitting in The Chair again—chair number 10, tucked back in the corner of the chemo ward. (Pretty sure this is purposeful… they put the wild ones back here.) Today is my return to Thugtherapy (my name for Trastuzumab, an immunotherapy that spares the hair but otherwise feels like chemo to my body). When I walked in earlier, R., a BSU student who’s my favorite phlebotomist, flashed me the sweetest smile—and Nurse K. looked up and said, “Welcome back!” after my 17-month hiatus. One of the acupuncturists just finished giving me a 30-minute treatment, which makes such a difference. (I’m so grateful the medical community is slowly embracing and integrating holistic resources!) My nurses and clinicians are lovely and kind and just the right amount of sassy. I adore these people. 

~ ~ ~

The woman in the chair next to me has a thin spike of hair (far more than several women in the waiting room had—they wore caps and beanies on their billiard-bald heads). A cheesy rendition of “I keep holding on” is playing a little too loud over tinny speakers, and if I were independently wealthy, I’d rip out this ugly old, patched linoleum and these cheap uncomfortable chairs and remodel this joint with as much warmth and beauty as possible. But more than a desire to remodel, my heart cries out, Jesus, shine your Light and Love into this place, into these hearts. 

~ ~ ~

Due to metastases making headway on my spine, last week I suffered a spinal fracture accompanied by pain that has made every movement and breath…special. As I was making light of it all, Dr. H told me it’s actually considered an emergency (due to the risk of spinal collapse and/or paralysis), so he ordered two MRIs STAT so we can make a new way forward. I’ve asked the Lord to hold my spine together and/or give me extra joy and grace to deal with the worst if it comes—because Lord knows that joy is not my default setting; I’m more prone to cuss and grumble than to laugh at the days to come. 

So can I just stop and say here that if Jesus can work in and through me—self-absorbed and slow-to-learn, proud and petty me—there’s hope for us all. We have such a patient, compassionate, forgiving, faithful Savior. As we keep going to him, and looking at him, and seeking him, he works miracles in our hearts. He gives us more of himself.

~ ~ ~

Despite a marathon of insurance and medical-record debacles, I always get the royal treatment here at St. Luke’s. Dr. H calls me the “OG Gangster VIP,” and he and my nurse bend over backwards to give me the very best care possible. I could not ask for a better medical team and can’t imagine being anywhere else. I’m so grateful. 

~ ~ ~

Back to that thin veil…

I’m convinced that a long goodbye, a slow death, is an unspeakably precious trust from God—a coveted window of time to share his goodness with a captive audience. People are enamored with the death process (albeit, terrified too, if it gets personal). They want to see how someone dies. So, when I talk about the life and joy and hope Jesus has given me in the face of death, most people lock eyes with me and listen. 

Then all this protracted suffering (that can so easily turn me inward and grumpy and wearied into numbness), matters immensely. It’s a continual invitation to engage with eternal souls, to share the Love of my life with incredibly special people who crave hope and joy and meaning in all this world’s madness. My death could be at work for their life. That’s ginormous and glorious and compels me to show up for yet another dreaded appointment or to push through another painful day.

This is why Paul’s words continue to mean so so so much to me:

~ ~ ~

It’s almost time to wrap up here. I got so engrossed in writing this, I momentarily forgot about the loading dose of Thug dripping into my veins, but a wave of acid nausea just hit me, so here we go. I glance again at chair number 9, which now holds a man who must be in his mid to late seventies. He’s sick and weak, with a nagging cough (I call it “the chemo cough”). His wife sits with him and she’s attentive and—burdened. We’re surrounded by so many beautiful eternal souls. God’s image bearers. Hurting people who need to know that Jesus came…

to shine on those who live in darkness
and the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the way of peace.

Luke 1:79

Jesus, give us eyes to see what you see, to share your peace right where you put us, to remember that knowing you is “the best thing in life, bringing more joy, delight and contentment than anything else”*—and the best thing we can give others.

~ ~ ~

Grateful for you, dear friends. Thank you for your messages, especially when you share how I can be praying for you too. It means so much. Everyone has their hard, and—yep, you know what I’m gonna say—suffering’s not a competitive sport. It’s a joy to be on this journey with you and to share each other’s burdens. 

I love you!

Colleen

*J.I. Packer, Knowing God, 33.

The post Cancer update 2.20.25 appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

My filth and my failures
filled up 
every page of
every book on 
every shelf
of the world’s largest library.
Expansive, unedited,
detailed and damning,
with new volumes 
added every day—
my crimes, 
no matter how 
masqueraded 
or modest,
sentenced me to death 
for all 
e t e r n i t y.

And yet, 
He came in compassion,
set fire to my 
colossal collection,
burned
to
the
ground 
every last page of
every last book on
every last shelf 
and said,
“It is finished. 
You’re forgiven.
Oh, how I love you!”

(Selah)

So, yes, it’s true—
your crimes
have crushed my heart;
you’ve pierced 
me through. 
You’ve bullied His bride
then balked at her bleeding—
cast her aside
and called it a win.
How can you love the Head
yet hate His body?

But have I
not done as much…
and more?
When I think on
my salacious sins—
that library of guilt—
your sins against me
fit on 

one
small
page.

Why then do I wrestle 
to strike this 
match of mercy
and burn to ashes 
your one-page wrongs?—
wrongs that He
entrusted to me,
that I might know Him more
and make much of His love.

Beloved—
on that Day
when at last we see 
His face,
behold His beauty,
bask in grace—
we’ll forever forget
this brief brokenness.
It will be 
swallowed up 
in perfect love
for one another.
And with that hope
held fast in my heart,
I choose again today
to live a life of love—
to freely forgive…
as I myself have been 
forgiven.

—Colleen Chao

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Sweet friends!

I can’t believe it’s been over four months since my last update when I said, “I hope to write another update soon…” I know my silence has been worrisome, so I do want to be more faithful to communicate. But I’m still finding it hard to put this phase of things into words. As a stop-gap measure, I’m gonna copy-and-paste my July 29 Instagram update below. Strangely enough, right now it’s easier for me to write within the constraints of a word limit like Instagram’s… but I do hope to send a more heartfelt update soon: a sooner-than-four-months-from-now soon.

Also, you know I love hearing how I can pray for you. I’m horrible at replying, but it brings me joy to pray!

With so much love,

~C

P.S. – THANK YOU for so faithfully praying and caring for Eddie and Jeremy. As many of you know, they bear every bit as much as I do on this journey, if not more. (Understandably, most people tend to rally around the cancer patient, while loved ones are left standing quietly on the periphery, a reality that’s broken my heart again and again.) Eddie just graciously agreed to share some of his own journey in my next update, which I’m so excited about. :))) All that to say, thank you for being the kind of people who care about all three of us. That means more to me than I can say.

~ ~ ~

AN UPDATE

••• My March PET scan confirmed cancer spreading in my lymph nodes. The cancer’s been in my ribs, hip, spine, chest wall, and lymph nodes. I’m experiencing increasing pain in three of those sites, which tells me it must be growing, but I won’t know the rate/extent of growth till my next scan. (I try to minimize the frequency of PET scans as the radioactive sugars measurably grow my metastases.)

••• My oncologist is continually amazed by the fact that although I’ve discontinued treatment, the cancer hasn’t killed me yet. He says they should study me. Ha! I just tell him, “I’m convinced God holds my days, and when it’s time for me to go Home, He’ll take me.” I believe that with all my heart.

••• I typically have very little energy each day. (E.g., when I hang out with close friends/family for a couple hours, make it to church, clean the house, etc., it can take a day or more to recover). My doctor’s explanation of my intense fatigue: “Your body is fighting hard!” (And it has been for many years!) Occasionally, God gifts me a week of extra energy, and BOY DO I LIVE IT UP, people. Annnd then I crash again. I have to be picky about how I spend my limited energy—and that’s rough for this people-loving, go-get-‘em girl!!

••• I don’t look like a cancer patient right now. My chia-pet hair is back (again!). I need to gain weight but I’m not chemo-emaciated, which is a win. My ailments are many but silent; even my exhaustion is difficult to detect because when I’m around people, I’m surfing a joy wave.

••• Some days are dark and heavy; some are full of light and laughter. The greatest challenge right now is to endure with joy. Yet joy keeps winning because Jesus is with me, and His love is better than life. I don’t just say that. I mean it with every fiber of my being. That truth has held me fast every step of this way.

••• Last but definitely not least: I’m eternally grateful for you all. Your prayers and encouragement are the greatest gifts to me (and E and J!). Thank you too for sharing your own stories of suffering with me. It means more than I can say. I love praying for you, even if I can’t message back.

The post Cancer Update appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

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Surprisingly, it was my integrative doctor who convinced me that my unique diagnosis demanded chemo. She referred me to a top-notch oncology clinic AND a Chinese medicine oncologist. I’m convinced that I survived the rigors of chemo—and that it was so effectual—because I was so well supported by my integrative team!

With my terminal diagnosis two years ago (what a miracle to write that! two years!!), I DREADED (and that’s an understatement) enduring chemo again—not just for 12 rounds this time, but indefinitely. So I resolved to find an alternative cancer clinic instead of spending my final days on the chemo torture rack.

I ended up at a world-class clinic in St. George (10/10 recommend!), but the cancer was spreading like wildfire, and, once again, it was a naturopathic oncologist who convinced me that combining chemo with a rigorous naturopathic protocol would be the most effective means to battle my aggressive cancer.

I’m grateful for both Western and alternative medicine. Alongside chemo, I’ve done everything from Viscum shots to colon hydrotherapy. I’ve had the best doctors in both worlds.

But I’m even more grateful for the work God has done in my heart. I’m no longer “for” or “against” any approach to cancer treatment. I understand why some people swear by chemo and others refuse it. Some people are healed at alternative cancer clinics—others are not. And while I work hard at my health, my ultimate goal is not self-preservation but rather, making the most of the days God has entrusted to me, living and loving fully, whether that’s at an alternative clinic or in a chair in the chemo ward. And when I die, it won’t be because my treatment plan failed—but because my work here is done and Jesus wants me Home!

The post To chemo or not to chemo? appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

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.

(This was a brief update I posted on Instagram…)

Okay, I’ve guzzled two cups of organic black decaf low-acid mold-free coffee and am ready to attempt an update. ? I’ll say it again: There’s no vocab for this journey, so I just kind of stab at words and pray they make a wee bit of sense.

I’ve had only one infusion since April—due to my increasing intolerance of treatment + Long Covid + major dental work (chemo bullies teeth!). After months of prayer and anguishing through pros and cons, I decided in late July to end all treatment, at least for the foreseeable future. (When it comes to these decisions, it feels like your options are: “Would you rather jump out of a plane without a parachute or be thrown into the ocean tied to an anchor?” ?) I knew the odds were great that the cancer would take over within months, but I decided to cross that bridge once I came to it.

However, as soon as I made my decision, the cancer made a comeback. I decided to do one more infusion, get a PET scan done, then make a revised decision based on those results.

During the pandemic, I was asked before PET scans, “Did you recently have Covid?”—because Covid can remain in the lymph nodes and look just like cancer. Lo and behold, the “cancer comeback” was in fact Covid’s perfect mimicry. The infection I contracted June 1 not only was acting like cancer but also created a pericardial effusion (fluid in the sac around the heart that can lead to heart failure).

What a rollercoaster this continues to be! I’m shocked and overjoyed that God continues to hold back the cancer in my spine, hips, ribs, chest, and lymph nodes! It’s also a heavy reality to not know what to do next: my body is intolerant of treatment, I’m utterly exhausted, and it’s complicated and even dangerous for me to get sick.

I’m still on my rigorous naturopathic protocol. When my doctor said, “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working!” I laughed and said, “Well, I do rub castor oil on all my metastases.” ? (I omitted detailing my myriad other strange practices. Ha!) But I quickly added, “I absolutely believe God holds my days and his hand is on this cancer, holding it back till it’s time for me to go Home.”

I believe that with all my heart, and in all the complexity and confusion of this journey, that is a solid truth I can rest in. “All my days were written in your book and planned before a single one of them began.” (Ps.139:16)

One of my prayers is that I won’t make too much of terminal cancer—that I’ll be able to communicate the experience without magnifying it. My story is so much more than this suffering. But it’s a tricky balance, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get it right. I do know that there is so much life to be lived today, even within these physical limitations and deep weariness. There are fresh new mercies and undeserved joys wherever I turn. The pic above is one of those joys: two of my besties visited last month. ?

Posting with the prayer that this will encourage some of you in your own hard…

~ ~ ~

August 30

“She smiles a lot. Her zygomat muscles are strong,” my dentist said matter-of-factly to his assistant. I lay there, mouth cranked wide open, as Dr. Jacobsen twisted and wrenched out a second decaying molar (compliments of chemo).

“She must be happy,” his dental assistant chirped in reply.

I nodded and caveman-grunted an affirmative. I am happy. But it’s a costly kind of happiness. I wish my mouth wasn’t out of commission. There’s a story behind this smile . . .

~ ~ ~

Elisabeth Elliot asked,

The past three months have been dark and heavy. I’ve been short on words. God has removed the intimate experience of his presence and let me grope in the darkness, clawing for grace to make it one moment at a time. It’s been physically grueling as well as psychologically exhausting. As long-term treatment’s ever-compounding side effects have demanded more and more of my body, I’ve grappled with the impossible decision, Is it time to end treatment since I’m becoming increasingly intolerant of it? How much more can I take?

(By the way… I have a standup comedy bit for this: “Would you rather jump out of an airplane without a parachute or jump into the deepest ocean with an anchor tied around your neck? How to choose, how to choose…”)

But facial muscles don’t lie. I do smile a lot and laugh almost as often—as many of you well know. (Fun fact: I was teased in elementary school for how much I smiled, and I’ve had many people tell me over the years, “I thought you were fake when I first met you” and “You don’t have to smile all the time.” I just tell them the smile is part of the package deal. Ha!) All that to say, I wish I could communicate my smile and laughter here as I write about these heavy realities. Wish I could talk about death with you, shed a few tears, then crack a corny joke to make you snort (‘cause you know that’s how I roll). Over these summer months I’ve wrestled through countless paragraphs trying to update you all, but every time I’ve ended up thinking, Sheesh. That’s completely depressing. I’ll try again later…

The thing is, cancer is utterly confusing—akin to a rickety old wooden rollercoaster that has so many twists and turns it would require a play-by-play update to make sense of the experience: it’s a slow uphill grind, it’s a fast downhill plunge, it’s blinding sunshine in the face, it’s an impenetrable dark tunnel, it’s an upside-down head rush, it’s a right-side-up scream fest. I truly don’t know how to make sense of this phase of our journey apart from an hourly update (which, helloooo, no one wants).

But where I lack the vocabulary to write well about this present suffering is where I continue to find God’s Word “perfect . . . trustworthy . . . right . . . radiant” (Psalm 19). The language of Scripture is the only sufficient language for suffering. It’s the language that tells the story of Love who went to the cross for us so that our suffering would never be meaningless.

And so I cry out to God using his own words. In recent weeks it’s been Psalm 116:

I love the Lord because he has heard
my appeal for mercy.
Because he has turned his ear to me,
I will call out to him as long as I live.

The ropes of death were wrapped around me,
and the torments of Sheol overcame me;
I encountered trouble and sorrow.
Then I called on the name of the Lord:
“Lord, save me!”

The Lord is gracious and righteous;
our God is compassionate.
The Lord guards the inexperienced;
I was helpless, and he saved me.

As I’ve been meditating on and memorizing and crying out these verses, I’ve also been studying First John. One of John’s recurring themes is “remain in God!” My heart burst to find that the original Greek word here for “remain” (meno) not only means “to stay,” but also, “to continue to be present.” As I meditated on both this and Psalm 116, this was my thought process:

The psalmist knew he would need to call out to God for the rest of his days. In other words, he knew life wasn’t going to get easier… so he would need God to the very end.

God is not sparing me from continued suffering, so I too will need to cry out to him for the rest of my days.

Crying out to God is a way of staying present with him. 

So God is continually letting me suffer to make sure I remain in him (and don’t remain stuck in my self-sufficiency, pride, and independence), which is the best thing God could do for me and for those I get to love for him.

A few of you will remember that when Jeremy was 18 months to six years old, he suffered monthly high fevers, rashes, joint pain, mouth sores, stomach upset, and an acute cough (eventually diagnosed as PFAPA syndrome). He spent hours and days at a time in my arms. All Jeremy could do was cry out in his suffering, and all my mama’s heart knew to do was comfort him in any and every way possible. Although those years often felt traumatic, I marvel at how Jeremy’s suffering allowed him to experience plentiful security and attachment, comfort and love early in life.

In a similar way, I’ve spent so many years crying out to my Father and being held in his arms that I’m deeply persuaded of his love, his comfort, his safety, his goodness, his wisdom, his nearness. And so even on a journey that often feels cruel and grueling, lonely and overwhelming, I’m convinced all over again that God has entrusted to me, and to Eddie and Jeremy, an exquisite gift delivered via terminal diagnosis. I know to the marrow of my soul-bones that “this momentary light affliction is producing for us an absolutely incomparable eternal weight of glory” (2 Corinthians 4:17).

Which is why my zygomat muscles are strong. I can still smile. And laugh. Crack jokes. Not because I’m good at facing death (oh boy, I’m not), not because I’ve got my act together (mercy, if you could hear the things that come flying out of my mouth or see the idols I often turn to in my pain)—but because my Father is holding me tight and filling me with his love and joy and hope and purpose.

~ ~ ~

For those of you who wonder how the heck I can claim to struggle with words and then write so many, here’s a summary I probably should have placed at the beginning. Ha! I had a break from treatment for four months (due to severe side effects, long Covid and its complications, as well as major dental work). In July I finally decided to end all treatment for the foreseeable future (and what a glorious two weeks of relief and rest came with that decision!). I thought that once the cancer began to grow again—perhaps in a couple of months?—I might have some renewed strength and increased capacity to continue treatment. However, within two weeks of my decision, the cancer was growing again, forcing me to return to the drawing board. (Again, terminal cancer is so confusing and the decisions are so crazy!) At this point, we’re taking one test and appointment and infusion at a time, asking God for wisdom just as we need it. My first infusion back (8/15) was not a good one, so we’re truly taking things day by day right now. I have a lineup of significant tests and appointments in the next couple of weeks, so I appreciate your prayers for clarity and peace and joy, as well as eyes to see who I can love for Jesus every time I step foot in that cancer clinic. It’s never a mistake when I find myself there, no matter how hard it is to show up.

~ ~ ~

And friends, you know I love hearing how I can pray for you too (even though I’m perpetually awful at responding to messages, argh). Our cancer journey is not the only hard thing going on! So many of you model for me the very things I write about in these updates.

I love and appreciate you all more than you know…

Colleen

__________________

March 1

My sweet friends!

I’m sitting here at my desk—a beautiful little workspace tucked into the corner of my bedroom—with two happy houseplants and a list of writing projects that far exceeds my capacity at the moment. Between sips of hot black decaf coffee, I’m asking myself again, How do I make sense of this stage of our journey? How in the world do I find words for it?

So maybe I’ll start down a rabbit trail and work my way backwards . . . But if you’d like to bypass my verbosity and skip straight to the end, you’ll find a bulleted list with some treatment deets.

~ ~ ~

I don’t remember when my obsession with World War II began, but I’ve devoured more books and movies on the subject than I can count. Like many of you, I’m captivated by the sweeping magnitude of suffering as well as heroism of WWII. Currently I’m reading both Hitler’s Boy Soldiers and The Betrayal of Anne Frank (light bedtime reading)—the first, a story of a 9-year-old German boy whose parents naively enrolled him into Hitler’s elite youth program; the second, a cold case investigation to find the betrayer of a 15-year-old Jewish girl and her family.

I’m both appalled and fascinated by the cultural influences, the religious nuances, the geography and military tactics, the technological advances and the dehumanization that made up a war that spanned the globe. But I’m most captivated by how people responded to the suffering as it unfolded over many years—from the first days of food rations to the final horrifying days of Auschwitz, to decades after the war as countries rebuilt leveled cities and survivors attempted to reenter society with undiagnosed PTSD. 

Suffering of any shape or size is still suffering. But what happens when suffering is long? — when a German boy-soldier doesn’t get to see his parents for ten years? when a teenage girl spends two years cramped in a dark, silent annex with eight other people—only to eventually be captured and sent to die in a concentration camp? While none of us have experienced anything like the horrors of WWII, wouldn’t we all agree that it’s the gravitas of sustained suffering that resonates with us? 

~ ~ ~

It’s been almost 6 years since I first discovered that ominous pea-sized lump in my right breast—and exactly 4 years since we finished treatment for Cancer Round 1. It’s been 23 months since we heard the cancer was back, and 21 months since we heard that the cancer was, in fact, incurable. I’m fast approaching my 50th chemo infusion, I’ve earned 11 scars from 6 surgeries, and long ago I gave up counting my scans and blood tests and doctor appointments. 

YET, even while the scope and scale of “the long goodbye” can be deeply wearisome and often grueling—I can’t fathom living apart from this terminal diagnosis now. Isn’t that bizarre? Death has become an ever-present companion whose nearness makes everything feel both weighty with beauty and as fragile as a soap bubble. And while Death is still every bit the last enemy, he’s ultimately been defeated and can no longer enslave me with his terror (Hebrews 2:14-15), so his presence serves a purpose. I’m convinced that a palpable sense of our mortality can open us up to greater eternal realities, including weightier joys and fuller freedom and an ever-increasing experience of Jesus. (Perhaps it’s our first-world sense of invincibility that’s an even greater enemy than death?) 

~ ~ ~

I think the strangest thing about this phase of our journey is that the three of us carry this heavy reality—like a pair of fifty-pound dumbbells—into our workdays and school classrooms and sports practices and get-togethers—as if it’s normal to lug this deadweight around (hm . . . pun not originally intended, but it def works). And while we may have gained some muscle memory for how to talk about death as a family or push through chemo’s side effects or prepare for the unthinkable, there’s just nothing normal about it. It can be lonely even as we lean hard into community. It can be exhausting even as we experience God sustaining us with gifts of joy and laughter and many, many daily mercies. 

And so, like many of you (because here’s me on repeat: cancer doesn’t have the corner on the market of suffering!)—here we are, holding both grief and gratitude in hand as God holds us together. Yes, I am weary but oh do I feel so loved by Jesus. So treasured by him. What a privilege it is to suffer in his name and see him “acting on behalf of those who wait for him” (Isaiah 64:4). 

I wish I could share all the ways God has “acted on our behalf,” but I’ll just highlight one for now: we’re part of a precious church community here in the Boise area where we are being lavishly loved and cared for, and where we are getting to love and care for others even within our limitations. Yesterday morning our church pastors and elders took time out of their (insanely busy!) schedules to sit with our family, anoint me with oil, lay hands on me, and pray over the three of us. I can’t begin to describe how meaningful and encouraging it was, how deeply strengthening. (I had both tears and snot running down my face.) We have been so well loved by them, by our larger church family, by you all, and we are constantly aware that we just couldn’t do this without you. You’re helping us carry these heavy dumbbells around—even as you carry your own heavy burdens. You never cease to amaze me.

You know by now that I love hearing about your own hard, love praying with you and for you in it. 

Thanks for being our people. We adore you and thank our God for you.

Colleen (for Eddie and Jeremy too)

~ ~ ~

For those of you who like details, here’s a recap. Nothing too new here since my last update, but it means so much when you ask for specifics, so I’m always happy to share….

INFUSION SCHEDULE
Maintenance chemo infusions are still every three weeks. This Friday is my third consecutive infusion since my glorious holiday break. The more consecutive infusions I have, the greater the cumulative exhaustion and side effects, and the more quality time I spend at home in my recliner. Ha! Because of this, I’m committed to continue taking “chemo breaks” every six months or so—to come up for air and live a little larger (like I did in December and January!).

SCANS
Yesterday was a routine scan to make sure my heart is still strong enough to handle maintenance chemo. I only get PET scans or MRI’s when I have symptoms (pain at the site of metastases in my spine/ribs/hip/chest wall/lymph nodes; dramatic weight loss, etc.). My last PET scan showed that the cancer is not currently growing. PRAISE GOD.

WHAT’S AHEAD
When the cancer eventually finds a pathway around the maintenance chemo, I’ll need to go back on “killer chemo,” the kind that makes me bald and super sick. To be honest, I’m not sure how my body will be able to do that for a third time, but there will be grace when the moment comes. For now, it’s an indescribable gift to have more time. Those of you praying for a miracle: today is one of the many, many answers to your prayers!

____________

January 3

Happy New Year, dear friends!

It’s been a few months since my last update, mostly because there’s not been much to share on the cancer front: chemo has been patchier the past few months due to sickness and holidays and health insurance kerfuffles. As a result, I’ve had more days of energy and fewer side effects, which has been absolutely lovely. I’ll be back on track with treatment starting with my next infusion on January 13.

I did wear a holter monitor for a couple of weeks in October, and it confirmed that my heart does not like Herceptin (aka, maintenance chemo). While my cardio-oncologist believes these heart episodes are not life-threatening at this point, he says they are a reaction to the long-term chemo and understands they’re difficult to live with. He offered to put me on a heart med so I don’t feel the heart-attack like symptoms, but the med would lower my already low blood pressure, which could present yet another problem. So at this point we haven’t jumped at the offer but we know it’s there if I tire of the episodes.

My WBC (white blood count) is also a perpetual struggle, constantly below range, which opens me up to more complex illnesses and infections. So I’m currently one of five people in Idaho who still wears a mask in crowded public settings. Haha.

Between the heart issues and the tanked WBC, we’ve decided to continue as many consecutive chemo infusions as possible, but then take breaks when necessary so I can come up for air, give my heart a rest, let my WBC rebound a bit, and live a little larger—which I’ve definitely done over the past two weeks on this chemo break! We’ve had such incredible times with family and friends and neighbors, and my heart is overflowingly FULL as this new year begins. (However, I’ve been back in my recliner the past two days because sometimes I take things a little too far. Anyone else also lack a Moderation Mode? Lol.)

Despite the continual dance through treatments and side effects, we are utterly stunned and indescribably grateful that God is using chemo (and perhaps my strict diet and naturopathic protocol as well) to hold my wildfire cancer at bay. A year ago I could not have imagined being here like this! I know many of you are praying for a miracle of full healing, but this extended time feels miraculous in and of itself. What a gift from God who faithfully holds every last one of my days (all of our days!) in his hands.

That’s it as far as the medical/health side of things goes. On the more personal side of things, I haven’t been able to describe the inner workings of my head and heart for weeks now. I’ve noticed how exhausted I am every time I try to write. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’ve spent the past 20 months laboring long and hard to put deep places into words, and I’m simply word-tired—or if it’s because my head and heart are exhausted from the long intense journey. Whatever the reason, I’ve prayed that God would give me more words in his perfect timing because I’m still convinced that writing is a huge part of why God entrusted me with this terminal diagnosis. The desire to communicate God’s goodness in suffering still burns strong in my bones!

I know many of you are in deep waters right now, so I’ll leave you with a word that has been a strong encouragement to me in the past month, verses (from 2 Corinthians 9) that I’ve been memorizing and praying often:

Thank you again and again for the way you’ve done this for us, friends— You’ve cared tangibly and generously and faithfully for us in the midst of your own burdens and sorrows, and we are continually amazed and grateful. ?

Love you all dearly . . .

Colleen

The post Cancer Updates 2023 appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

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.

I laugh now at my young, self-serving prayer, but even to this day—on the cusp of 47 years old—I long to be beautiful. However, as the forties have proven, aging isn’t a kind process, and wrinkles don’t turn heads. Nor does a terminal cancer diagnosis filled with harsh treatments. My once firm-and-glowing skin has been replaced by the relentless effects of gravity, accelerated by years of chemotherapy. 

~ ~ ~ 

At 30 years old, my (not yet sagging) jowls almost dropped when one of my work colleagues, also 30, outlined her lifelong Botox plan to me. Botox was still the new kid on the block, unvetted, eyed with suspicion. I looked at my friend’s face—still glowing with youth—and grieved that she was so fearful of aging. 

Little did I know that within ten years, Botox—and fillers and peels and the knife—would become as common and accessible as a gym membership, and women in their twenties would begin their muscle-paralyzing, face-altering regime in a race against time. I would watch countless actresses freeze their faces into expressionless but photo-perfect stills. I would also watch older Christian women suddenly look ten years younger, with plump cheeks and taut mouths. And I would look into the mirror myself and wonder, What if I could get rid of these sagging jowls and deepening lines? And what happens if I choose not to do anything and end up looking twenty years older than my peers?

~ ~ ~

Before my first cancer diagnosis at age 41, I was often told how young I looked for my age. I think subconsciously it made me feel special, perhaps even a bit superior, to look younger than some of my peers. But a five-year journey through cancer has changed all that: I’ve lost my head full of hair—twice—along with my eyebrows and eyelashes, healthy skin, and bright eyes. There have been weeks at a time when I’ve looked like an 80-year-old man. These losses have touched the very core of my identity as a woman, revealing just how deep my desire for youthful beauty truly is. I’ve alternately grieved and feared, felt shame and sometimes even despaired over my reflection in the mirror. 

But my grieving has prompted me to pray a big prayer: 

God, give me a beauty that doesn’t make sense to this world—a beauty that shines and even grows through all of this, and that ultimately points to you. When people see me, let them think, She’s not beautiful by cultural standards, but she has a compelling beauty—and I want to know where it comes from.

Even as I’ve mourned the loss of my youthful features and the way chemo has hyper-aged my face, I’ve marveled to watch God answer my prayer in spades. He’s slowly been freeing me from my self-obsession, working miracles in my heart and forging a new confidence in me that literally shows on my face. He’s tenderly held my face in his hands and said,

Those who look to Me are radiant with joy; their faces will never be ashamed. (Psalm 34:5)

~ ~ ~

As I look to God, my face becomes more radiant and unashamed, and this results in a beauty that doesn’t begin and end with me. My face was created, with all its intricate muscles and movements, to be a powerhouse of joy, empathy, understanding, and love. In his book, Transforming Fellowship, Chris Coursey writes,

In the Bible, to have God’s face is to have life, joy and blessing while the absence of God’s face is equated with death, abandonment and rejection. It is no accident that the face is where joy starts and stops . . . With forty-three muscles, the face is an ideal platform to convey our love and express our delight toward one another” (p.52). 

Each of our facial muscles were designed by God for a purpose, and when they are working together for that purpose, true indestructible beauty results. It’s a beauty that is relational and others-centered. It’s a beauty that doesn’t walk into a room worrying, “What do they think about how I look?” but rather, “How can I connect with and care for them?” 

Botox and fillers and peels and the like are not inherently moral issues (I’m not writing this article to convince you never to use them). But for me, they present three intrinsic problems: by altering my face to perpetually erase signs of my true age, I’m communicating—

1. “I’m not grateful for every year I’ve been given here. I’d like to pretend I’ve only lived 30 years instead of 47.” (In light of a terminal diagnosis, this feels almost tragic.)

2. “I’m willing to prioritize feeling better about myself at the expense of caring for the people around me.”

3. “This life, this moment, is what matters most.”

With my remaining days here, I want to wield the power of my face for the good of others. I want to use every muscle and wrinkle and line to express compassion to a hurting friend, joy at seeing another human, even hilarity over the comedic aspects of life! I want my husband and son to see my love for them all over my face, to see how happy I am to be with them. 

Can you imagine if we women leaned into this kind of loving beauty? What if we refused to live under the crushingly high standards society has set for us—superficial-beauty standards that require us to alter the very function of our faces to feel good about ourselves—and instead celebrated aged beauty, wrinkled joy, and faces that use all 43 muscles to love others? What if we chose to wade through the awkwardness and grief of aging in order to reflect Jesus to a world that desperately needs him? 

~ ~ ~

In The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis imagines a man who gets to visit both heaven and hell before he dies. While in heaven, the man sees a radiant woman and is transfixed by “the unbearable beauty of her face.” He learns that this woman was not famous or important when she lived on earth—she simply loved people out of the overflow of her life in Christ, and it resulted in a breathtaking eternal beauty. A teacher explains to the man the impact of the woman’s life and the reason for her beauty:

‘It is like when you throw a stone into a pool, and the concentric waves spread out further and further. Who knows where it will end? Redeemed humanity is still young, it has hardly come to its full strength. But already there is joy enough in the little finger of a saint such as yonder lady to waken all the dead things of the universe into life.’ (p.120)

We’re on the cusp of eternity—and with it, eternal beauty that will require us to have resurrected bodies to bear its magnitude. It’s a beauty that was bought by the blood of Jesus, a beauty that can never be spoiled. It’s the fulfilled beauty of Ezekiel 16 and Song of Songs 4: 

You are absolutely beautiful, my darling; there is no imperfection in you. (Song of Songs 4:7)

Your fame spread among the nations because of your beauty, for it was perfect through my splendor, which I had bestowed on you. This is the declaration of the Lord God. (Ezekiel 16:14)

These momentary wrinkles and lines remind us that this life is vanishing like a mist (James 4:14), but infinite beauty face-to-face with Jesus is almost here. 

For more encouragement from Scripture, see Psalm 27:4; Proverbs 15:13; Ezekiel 16:6-14; 1 Peter 1:21-25; Isaiah 60:15; 1 Peter 4:7-8; 

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