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

~ ~ ~

CHAPTER ONE: THE CLIMBING TREE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pax only glanced at his homework, then turned away. 

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

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

Jayni looked over at Pax. “You okay?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you from?” Jayni repeated. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

**See 2 Corinthians 1:4-5.

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

I 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; 

The post Aging for the good of others appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

Mystery—

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

Shadow, substance
Long and short
Handspan, breath…
Infinite

Holding on and
Letting go
Open handed
Lingering

Fragile, fearful
Unmoved, strong
Laughing joy
Bitter drink

Hoping long and
grieving slow
Sleepless nights
Mercies dawn

Straining forward
Doubled down
Kneeling, prostrate
Fighting on

Misery and
Miracles
Haunting hours
Holy days

Pain and promise
Loss and love
Breathless, burdened
Greatest grace

Past and future
Eternal now
Death is almost
History

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

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Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely adore being in my forties. I love getting older, and I’m more comfortable in my own skin than I’ve ever been. But in a culture that worships the ruthless tyrant Ageless—and with a heart prone to obsess over Self—I wage a daily war between lies and truth.

Lies say the greatest compliment I can receive is, “You look so young for your age! I never would have guessed you’re in your forties!” (Even today, on TV in the doctor’s office, a famous model offered me a special age-defying potion. She said there’s a magical fruit in the south of France that will take ten years off my face.)

But Truth says I’m an image-bearer of The Most Beautiful One—and by beholding him, I become like him. My spirit, the very essence of who I am, grows more beautiful in his presence.

Lies say women lose stock as they age.

Truth says these wrinkles represent some pretty amazing chapters in my story—chapters I wouldn’t give up for all the youthful looks in the world. (Why would I want to be mistaken for 34 when I’m so grateful for every one of these 44 years?)

Lies say your body is your worth. Your looks are your currency.

Truth says this life is just a shadow of the breathtaking reality to come. Aging is the passing of the shadow, the coming of all that is good and lasting.

So, when I’m tempted to resent how hard it is to maintain muscle these days, how my eyes seem to wax gibbous, or how my jowls are sinking into my neck, I catch myself. These wrinkles are my glory! Every altercation of age is a testimony to God’s good work in my life, to a heart that he is beautifying each day.

I hope that as I live into the fullness of middle age, the best compliment I receive will be, “You are radiant with Jesus. I see him in and through you, and it is beautiful.”

Bring it on, 44.

(Now if only I could make peace with my gray roots….)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.” Psalm 34:5

“Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.” 2 Corinthians 4:16

“A human is like a breath; his days are like a passing shadow.” Psalm 144:4

The post The Woman in the Mirror appeared first on Colleen E. Chao.

~ ~ ~

This summer was the first time in a decade that I felt well. I started sleeping, I had energy, the aches and pains of chronic illness were minimal. On top of that, my son’s health had improved enough for us to experience the edges of “normalcy.” My husband and I looked at each other and whispered with relief, “We’re not in crisis mode anymore.”

So on that mid-summer morning with a threatening lump at my fingertips, I wondered through frightened tears, What if this is cancer? After all we have been through, what if we’re about to face our biggest health crisis yet? God wouldn’t do that, would he?

~ ~ ~

We began a long and complicated testing process. Some days I had all the peace in the world—miraculous calm and confidence in God’s goodness. Other days I couldn’t loosen fear’s vise-grip on my heart.

Don’t make me walk this, Lord, I begged him.

And then just as quickly: But if this is where You are going, I want to go with You. I don’t want to miss out on what You’re doing.

Even in the scariest moments, holding my breath for that decisive phone call, I knew he was with me. And as I hid myself in him during those waiting weeks, he confirmed again and again, “This lump is a gift.”

What kind of gift, I didn’t yet know. I hoped for the best, but readied my heart for the worst.

Because what if the worst was the gift?

~ ~ ~

I’ve lost several dear ones to cancer in recent years. Two to breast cancer. I’ve watched the slow dying process and know that the worst can be cruel.

I don’t want to suffer. I don’t want to lose my breasts and my hair, prematurely age, and suffer more aches and pains. What comes naturally to me is the Art of Preservation. I want to save my life, not lose it.

But looking back at 41 years of life, filled with various trials that have preceded this one, I can say with confidence: It’s always been in the losing—the surrendering—that I have found Life.

~ ~ ~

It would be easy to say, “Nothing prepares you for a cancer diagnosis”—but it wouldn’t be true. God has been preparing me for the past 19 months.

In April 2015, I resolved to address some areas of emotional immaturity in my life (namely, how to maintain my joyful identity in the midst of relational conflict), and I began working tirelessly through Life Model Works’ amazing resources. I saw grace and growth like never before.

Then, at the beginning of this year, I had a renewed appetite to read books about people who have suffered with joy and courage. I devoured one biography after another—I couldn’t get enough.

On top of that, God had me praying through the Psalms, which allowed me to tread every square inch of my life in truth. My Abba and I, we covered so much territory together between March and July.

I experienced the Spirit’s power as never before, and was keenly aware of his purposes in my life.

So when I sat in my doctor’s office on a Tuesday afternoon early this month, I was ready for the diagnosis: Cancer.

~ ~ ~

It is in our human nature to be constantly surprised by life’s hardships. To ask “why me?” But Christ modeled a life of joyful suffering—and then called us to follow in his footsteps.

Christ came to give his life as a ransom for many. He was a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief. But!—for the joy set before him he endured the worst suffering the world has ever known.

My diagnosis is not the worst suffering I can imagine. Far from it. (I could quickly recite for you a list of far worse scenarios!) But still it feels like too much in some moments. On the darker days, my heart has echoed the Psalmist’s: “All Your waves and breakers have swept over me.” A decade of numerous intense trials has not earned us a season of ease and pleasure. Instead, the storm rages on.

But as C.H. Spurgeon said, “I have learned to kiss the wave that dashes me against the Rock of Ages.”

These forcible waves, they carry me to the One who says, “Peace. Be still.”

~ ~ ~

Many of our friends have asked us how our six-year-old son, Jeremy, is doing with all of this. To state the obvious, it’s hard. We decided early on in the testing process that we’d share frankly with him—but we’d do it in such a way that hopefully modeled joy and trust in Jesus. We want him to learn how to navigate suffering with an enormous view of God. To know the way back to peace from intense negative emotions.

The night we received my official diagnosis, Jeremy had tears and hugged me tight. I locked eyes with him and said, “This is hard, isn’t it, Bud? It’s not good news. But God is with us, and He turns everything for our good. Everything. So we don’t need to fear. And God is going to use this in your life in amazing ways.”

Jeremy paused, then asked us to read the story of The Fiery Furnace. My husband Eddie read the account in Daniel 3, which includes Nebuchadnezzar gasping,

‘Did we not cast three men bound into the fire? But I see four men unbound, walking in the midst of the fire, and they are not hurt; and the appearance of the fourth is like a son of the gods.”

Eddie closed the Bible and after another pause, Jeremy said,

“There are four of us in this family.”

God doesn’t waste suffering even on a six-year-old. He’s growing a tender heart strong through the uncertainty. He’s teaching joyful courage to a little man who may need it in his generation more than I’ve needed it in mine.

God is with us. In the fiery furnace. In cancer. In your dark troubles too, dear one. He is a good God who gives gifts that are weighty with glory.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

P. S. – We covet your prayers for us, especially that we would experience such peace and joy that our medical team and unbelieving friends would listen with enlarged hearts as we speak of the good God who has healed us from the worst imaginable disease: sin. Suffering can be the most compelling conduit of good news, and I don’t want to miss caring for eternal souls who might be facing a fate infinitely worse than cancer. With all my heart I believe this gift is not just for me and my family but also for many others. Pray that we will abide in Christ and bear much fruit in this. Thank you so much for standing with us!

The Lord called me from the womb, from the body of my mother he named my name. And he said to me, ‘You are my servant …. in whom I will be glorified.’ He formed me from the womb to be his servant …. For I am honored in the eyes of my Lord, and my God has become my strength.  (excerpts from Isaiah 49)

Afflictions work for good, as they make way for glory. Not that they merit glory, but they prepare for it. —Thomas Watson

What is any illness to Him? One touch and it would be gone. But I wonder if the Lord is saying not only to me but also to you, ‘See to it that you are in perfect accord with Me and then trust Me to withhold no good thing.’  —Amy Carmichael

To receive weekly updates on my cancer journey, please email ColleenEChao@gmail.com.

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

Until I landed in the ER at 3:00 a.m. one morning with what I thought was a heart attack.

I hadn’t slept in three days and my heart was racing, burning, palpitating. Even when I lay motionless in bed, I felt like I was running a marathon. I gasped for breath. I was exhausted.

Docs ran multiple tests and X-rays, but in the absence of anything conclusive they sent me on my way: “This can happen to people with long-and-thin frames like yours.” I left the ER that day with no idea how to slow my body long enough to get a few hours of sleep. Soon I had to quit my job and fly home to California.

That was a dark season of my life, to be sure. And it was the beginning of a new reality for me. Eventually my “heart-attack–insomnia” bouts were diagnosed as panic attacks, and for the past sixteen years they have dotted the landscape of my life.

Panic attacks have been a source of both grief and grace. Grief, because they are terrifying and painful and disorienting and exhausting. Grace, because through them God has humbled my proud heart and taught me to trust less in myself and more in Him. When Asaph says, “My flesh and my heart may fail me, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever,” I get it.

Boy, do I get it.

I’ve learned a lot along this broken way. I’ve been able to identify the biggest triggers for my panic attacks. I’ve come to understand the great need I have for healthy life habits. I’ve passionately pursued emotional and relational maturity in areas of my life where I’ve long been deficient.

And I’ve learned that we are wholistic creatures—God made us both body and soul. Imagine sharing the gospel with a starving person without first meeting their physical needs. It would be unkind and ineffectual, to say the least. In a similar way, if you’re in the midst of panic and I tell you “Don’t be anxious for anything” before I address your physical symptoms—I ultimately fail to care for you. First let’s deal with the panic, then your heart will be calm enough to hear life-giving truth.

Perhaps the most beautiful thing I’ve learned is that God is happy to be with me, even in the most terrifying moments of anxiety. He is here. He has everything I need for this.

Some helpful handles

God hasn’t given me a shortcut through panic. He cares more for my long-term growth than for quick-fixes that bring momentary relief but leave me unchanged. Along the way He has graciously equipped me with some very helpful handles—that minimize the frequency and severity of my panic attacks. I want to share some of these with you. I’m not a doctor, so I’ll leave issues of medication, exercise, and diet in the hands of the professionals. But these are simple means of turning to God (physically and emotionally) in order to not just survive anxiety, but to also know and love Him better through it.

God is bringing much beauty out of my ashes, and if some of that beauty can spill over onto you, this 16-year journey would be well worth it.

Life-giving friends

Typically when I’m in the throes of panic there are layers of stressful people and circumstances in my life. Avoiding those circumstances and people may not be possible (nor even wise), but I can counterbalance them by spending extra time with joyful, life-giving friends. These are dear ones who are tender to my weaknesses and love me in all my mess. They lower their expectations. They light up when they see me.

Time with them reminds me of who I am, who God is, and that there’s life beyond this panic. I notice that my heart rate slows, my shoulders relax, and my obsessive thoughts lose momentum. God has made us for joyful relationship, and the worst thing I can do when I’m navigating extreme anxiety is to isolate myself from those who love me.

A thankful heart

One of the greatest helps in dealing with panic has been practicing appreciation in three specific ways. I stole these from two must-read books: Joy Starts Here by Jim Wilder, and Transforming Fellowship by Chris Coursey.

• Appreciation memories.  When I’m riddled with anxiety, I recall two specific memories of when I experienced amazing peace and joy (I’ve named them “Panera Bread” and “D.C. Trip”) and I relive them in as much detail as I can: where I was; what I smelled, heard, saw, tasted; who I was with, and so on. Doing this reminds me (1) what it feels like to be calm, (2) that God has been so good to me before, and (3) that this momentary panic is not the end of the story.
• List of 10.  I keep a list of 10 things I’m grateful for. It includes my morning cup of coffee, the beautiful view from my bedroom window, the daily routines I enjoy with my family, and the grace I receive from my husband every day. I rehearse it when my thoughts feel panicky. The goal is to practice gratitude with such frequency (some suggest 5 minutes, 3 times a day) that my brain learns a new normal, and my body can begin to return to an appreciative and calm state more quickly over time, with practice.
• 3X3X3.  When I’m ramped up and just can’t seem to slow down (and I’m dreading a sleepless, anxious night), just before bed I recall aloud 3 things I’m thankful for about that day, 3 things I’m thankful for about my husband, and 3 things I’m thankful for about God. This sounds ridiculously simple, but it has an immediate effect on me.

A relaxed body

Sometimes a full-body massage can work wonders in the midst of panic. (On a side note, Chinese reflexology offers much more affordable versions of fancy spa massages!) A panic attack can create a corkscrew of physical tension, and massage can immediately release some of that pressure.

There are also fantastic “tapping” and pressure-point techniques that help calm the body. And sometimes I simply need a strong hug or a firm grip on my arm to slow my heart rate. Moderate exercise and sweating help me as well (even a 20-minute walk and a few lunges or light weights), but nothing sustained or intense—as that can put more burden on my already overtaxed body.

I’ve also used a breathing app to help me steady and deepen my erratic and short breaths during an attack.

Time outdoors 

I’ve found that spending time outdoors—soaking up the sun and enjoying nature in all its beauty—is highly effective (and free!) therapy for both body and soul. I’ve come to love hiking. I’ve become an avid bird-watcher (ahem, the very person I used to chuckle at), and I often linger while looking at a flower, a sunset, a tree. I take deep breaths as I study the intricacies of my Creator’s handiwork.

If God cares this much for a flower of the field or a bird of the air, if there is such design and purpose in a tiny part of His creation—imagine how much more He cares for me, how much greater His purposes are for me.

Journaling, Praying the Word

During periods of intense anxiety and panic, I have the tendency to read Scripture and pray with a fearful and distracted spirit. In order to move out of fearful mode into relational mode with God, I use this journaling technique. It helps me quiet my heart so I can engage with God, sense His nearness, and hear His voice. Once I’m calm and in tune with Him, prayer and the Word can have their effect on me.

And the Word is life itself (Deuteronomy 32:47). If I’m not prayerfully in Scripture, every other helpful handle may bring some form of relief, but ultimately won’t transform me. But when I continue to steep myself in the riches of God’s truth, and I ask Him boldly for the supernatural gifts of peace and joy in the midst of great stress–He “rescues me because He delights in me,” and that changes me.

Lifestyle adjustments

In describing his struggle with anxiety and depression, J.P. Moreland wrote,

“I once heard a Christian psychologist say that we were made to live in a camel culture: slow-paced, relational and no electric lights to keep people up beyond sundown and deprive them of the eight and one half hours of sleep they need each night. But ours is no camel culture. We live in a rapid-paced, highly stressful society. We are constantly surrounded with noise, cell-phones, television…. As a result, anxiety and depression are epidemic in America.”

Several years ago I woke up to the fact that I was living beyond my means. I was a debtor to sleep. I could no longer keep up with a huge social circle and constant activity. I’d long cheated my body of what it so desperately needed, and I was paying a high price. So here are some lifestyle choices I began to make—and I now prioritize.

• I keep a regular bedtime and make late nights the exception rather than the rule.
• I minimize screen time and try to avoid it altogether before bed.
• I read inspiring, hopeful books.
• I avoid caffeine and eat food that works with my body, not against it.
• If our calendar is getting cluttered, and I’m becoming task-driven instead of relationally driven, I cut back on my commitments. (And I make sure I have as many joyful commitments as I do draining ones.)
• I get alone with God most mornings.

Imitation

It’s one thing to read about how to do this stuff—it’s quite another to have someone model it for you. I am forever grateful for a few friends (both living and passed) who have shown me what it looks like to walk through life’s sorrows and stresses, to be prone to anxiety in its extreme forms and still be able to return to joy and peace in Jesus.

Motivation

I won’t pretend that these skills and habits have been easy to learn and implement. Most of my journey has been uphill. But as I have given myself, day in and day out, to working at my deficits, God has met me in amazing ways.

As I address these very real issues of chemical imbalances, personality tendencies, and stress factors, I’m motivated by more than just a desire to rid my life of panic attacks (although that would be nice!). Rather I long “to grow up in every way into Christ” so that I can increase my capacity to care for people, so I can suffer well and handle more of life’s challenges without losing my joyful identity.

God never gives up on His children. I’m 41 years old and learning things I should have known 20 years ago. But God’s timing is perfect, and He has used panic attacks as cords-of-kindness, to draw me to Him and make me love Him as I never could have imagined.

I led them with cords of kindness,
    with the bands of love,
and I became to them as one who eases the yoke on their jaws,
    and I bent down to them and fed them.
Hosea 11:4

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A small booth in the back corner of Panera Bread became my sweet refuge that Spring. This journal entry is a beautiful reminder to me that God knows just how to pursue us, woo us, in every season of our life.

(How are you experiencing Him in this unique season of yours, dear one?)

April 3, 2009

It’s 6:01 on Friday morning, and I’m at my neighborhood Panera Bread. These days I get up between 4:30 and 5:00 to make it here by the time the doors open. My Bible and C.S. Lewis’ The Problem of Pain sit beside my cup of coffee.

There’s a group of old men that beats me to the door every morning. (One of them dresses as if he’ll be attending the Santa Anita horse races later this afternoon.) They take up two tables by the door and talk for hours on end.

Another old man sits by himself a few tables away and reads through his Coke-bottle glasses. He carries a manila folder with a big superman-like S drawn on the front. I’d like to know what’s in that folder.

Then there’s a quiet Asian woman whose hair is always pulled back into a ponytail and who reads her Bible and journals—then slips out quietly around 6:45.

Once or twice a week, six medical doctors convene at the big conference table in the middle of the restaurant. They eat bagels and talk about important stuff.

The classical music doesn’t start playing until about 6:15, just about the time one of the Panera employees drags the cafe umbrellas outside. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone sitting outside this early in the morning. It’s too cold. Too dark.

Of all the Panera regulars, my two favorites are about to walk through the door: two Redlands High School girls who I became friends with in this corner of the restaurant last Monday morning. I wonder if any of the students at our school would, of their own volition, get up and go sit at a coffee shop at 6:30 in the morning?

The periwinkle sky has just caught my eye, and it looks like the midnight’s lighthearted storm left behind some billowy remains. It’s beautiful. Everything is wet and cloudy and peaceful. Just what my heart needs before my day full of responsibilities that far exceed my capabilities.

Which is why my favorite part of Panera is the part that’s unseen and indescribable. Unbeknownst to everyone around me, there’s someone else at my table with me. I walk in here every morning in desperate need of more than just coffee. (Although that’s important, too.) I need Him. His words. His truth. His hope. His wisdom. I need to lay my day before Him and ask Him for His strength and joy.

And He gives it in abundance. He’s not stingy or tired or grumpy. He’s here with me, eager to accomplish His purposes in and through me today.

I want to be a regular with Jesus. I want to know what He’s like and what He’s up to each day. I want to sit and observe and listen and learn. And then do. I want to go from here and obey what He’s spoken to my heart.

Thank You, Lord, for this little corner. This healing place. This daily cup of joy…

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Or was it?

A dear one’s recent divorce has me anguishing over these questions all over again:

What did we girls expect?
What did we think marriage would look like?
Do we have any idea what true love really is?

Eddie and I have had one wild ride since we said “I do” on August 28, 2010. We’ve navigated deaths of loved ones, unemployment, multiple moves, financial pressures, chronic pain and illness, new parenthood, our own shortcomings and failures, and the list goes on. Needless to say, in three years’ time, life has already begun testing the fiber of our commitment.

It hasn’t been easy, but it has been indescribably good. In fact, marriage is far more beautiful than I expected because it is largely not what I expected. This picture of Christ and His bride, this marriage between sinners, is not ultimately for my comfort and happiness. It is to show Jesus to the world around me (and to my son, whose ideas of marriage are being shaped even now at two years old). Eddie and I are part of something bigger than “us” and our marriage. By loving and serving one another, by keeping covenant, we’re living the gospel in a world that desperately needs Good News.

I’m beginning to understand that the most beautifully aged marriages are the ones that faced the roughest seas and fought by God’s grace and power to stay anchored together. They didn’t stay married because they were “compatible” with each other; they didn’t even stay married because they were in love. They stayed married because they knew God had put them together for a great purpose and He would hold them together to the end.

And that’s what makes this so good. Marriage is a work of Almighty God for the glory of God.

I love being married. I am stunned by the tenacious love, fierce forgiveness, and power of God that our beautiful covenant requires. I’m humbled by the brokenness and baggage my husband and I have brought into our marriage, and I’m spellbound by the grace and love we experience as we walk with each other through those frailties. I’ve never in my life experienced God’s love and grace like I have with Eddie.

Like I can talk. We’re only three years into this adventure, remember?

But God’s Word is true, no matter how long I’ve been married. So in a culture of mass marital hysteria, even young marriages like mine have the opportunity to demonstrate the gospel and showcase Christ-like covenant love to a broken world that has absolutely no idea what love is. Christ-like covenant love says, “God created this beautiful thing called marriage, so till death do us part, God is going to hold us together.”

The best things in life are worth fighting for. Singleness taught me that. Waiting on God for a godly marriage meant learning to deny my fiery emotional and sexual desires till I was 34 years old. At times it felt like too great a cost. But God’s name was at stake, and He was doing an eternally significant work in my heart and in the hearts of many others. I continue to see fruit today from the labor of those long years. Now my marriage is the great work at hand, and at times it is costly, but only because so much glory is at stake.

Our culture is hostile toward God’s idea of marriage, but the gospel thrives in adversity; it is resilient under attack. Your marriage, dear one, is the gospel in living color, so guard it, rejoice in it, fight for it. By God’s grace, by His immeasurable power at work in you, He will hold your marriage together and paint a picture of Love Himself.

“The One who calls you is faithful, and He will do it.” 1 Thessalonians 5:24

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