ARTICLES BY COLLEEN CHAO

Tag: Most Mentioned

Beauty

Aging for the good of others

I grew up on the doorstep of Hollywood and Orange County, the beauty capitals of the world. When out-of-state friends visited, they were stunned by the “beauties per capita” of my neighborhood. I’m not sure if it was this saturation of perfectly curated faces and bodies, or a hardwired desire within me, but as a teenager I prayed, “God, please make me beautiful. Please. And if you do, I’ll use my beauty to glorify you.” 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 My once firm-and-glowing skin has been replaced by the relentless effects of gravity, accelerated by years of chemotherapy.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

Colleen Elisabeth Chao January 18, 2023

Cancer

Our cancer journey

If you know me, you’ve heard me say again and again, “Cancer doesn’t have the corner on the market of suffering.” Nor does cancer define me. (In fact, it’s one of the shorter chapters in my life’s story.) So I’m often hesitant to overemphasize or overshare details of it. There are many other kinds of suffering, some far worse than a terminal diagnosis. Plus, by nature I’m a private person (not quiet, but private!), so posting personal information online always feels like I’m high diving into a bathtub: equal parts scary and foolish. Anyone else feel me on this? 😉 But over the years I’ve learned that this online space can be a gift—a unique way to share the love of Jesus and encourage others. And because many of you are also walking through cancer (your own or your loved one’s), I think it could be helpful if I share a few more details of our journey with you. Reading others’ experiences with cancer has helped me over these years: to normalize some of the crazy, to validate some of the hard, to strengthen me for the next step. All that to say—I hope this summary of our cancer journey is helpful, not scary or overwhelming. I hope too that you can picture me sitting here at my desk with a mug of hot black decaf coffee, writing this account with miraculous peace, blown away by a God who has woven his extraordinary goodness into every dark detail and grief-filled day of the past five years. I’ll say it again: God never ever cheats his children—he always out-gives them. May you feel the truth of that even as you read this summary. ~ ~ ~ In July 2017, I felt a pea-sized lump in my right breast as I showered. After a long, complicated testing process, I was diagnosed with cancer (stage 2B, IDC, triple positive, Chek2) on November 7. A slew of appointments and scans followed, and we formed my treatment team (medical oncologist, surgical oncologist, reconstructive/plastic surgeon, integrative MD, and holistic oncologist). Three days before Christmas, I had my right sentinel lymph node removed and my port placed. (The pea-sized mass was now bigger than a golf ball.) Twelve weekly rounds of neo-adjuvant chemo (Taxol, Carboplatin, Herceptin, Perjeta) began January 12, 2018. In May, a few weeks after my twelfth and final dose, I had a double-mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. We rejoiced over the news that the cancer was gone, and I began maintenance chemo and hormone therapy. In October 2018 I had a follow-up corrective surgery, at which time my port was also removed. By February 2019 all surgeries and treatments were officially wrapped up, my hair was making a quick comeback, and I felt better overall. It was just 19 months from mass discovery to treatment’s end—and although I still struggled with chronic infections and some lingering side effects, I felt confident the cancer was gone for good. When I found a little lump on my neck in August 2020, my oncologist ordered a PET scan—which insurance refused to approve. A less comprehensive scan was approved instead, and the results came back clear. That was December 2020. One month later, I felt the faintest pain in my right arm pit as I applied deodorant—and a few weeks after that, my right ribs and hip began hurting. I initially assumed I’d injured them in a HIIT workout (hello there, middle age), but when the pain in my armpit grew into a palpable lump, I grew suspicious. We began the testing process all over again, even as our family packed to move out of state. Two days before our move, I had multiple lymph nodes biopsied—and one week later (5 days after we landed in Idaho), I received the results via a telemedicine appointment: the cancer was back. I quickly established with a reputable cancer center in Boise, navigated another insurance debacle, which pushed off all medical care for a month—but I eventually had a PET scan, and on June 2, 2021, heard the worst: stage four. Incurable. The cancer was on my spine, ribs, hips, and in my lymph nodes. Within weeks, it spread to my chest wall as well. The metastases were growing like wildfire, causing increasing pain that soon made it difficult for me to do simple tasks such as dress, walk, drive, and cook. I couldn’t imagine surviving even one year—though I was resolved to live fully every last day God would give me with my husband and son. In June 2021 I spent two weeks at an integrative clinic in St. George, where I was able to resolve some of my chronic infections, fortify my body, and find holistic support and supplements for the rigorous journey ahead. When I returned, I had a new port placed and chemo began (Taxol, Herceptin, Perjeta), as well as hormone therapy. With a few breaks along the way (since my body overreacts to chemo in a number of ways), I finished 12 rounds of Taxol in November 2021, then continued on Herceptin and Perjeta (often referred to as “maintenance chemo,” but technically immunotherapy). Because I was not able to tolerate hormone therapy—the goal of which is to starve estrogen-hungry cancer and thereby “buy me more time”—I opted for a bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy (i.e., they yanked out my ovaries and fallopian tubes, ha!) this past May, resulting in Instapot Menopause (thank you, Lis, for that term of perfection). In September, due to my body’s struggle to tolerate perpetual maintenance chemo, I took a month off (glorious, glorious month!). Currently I’m back to infusions every three weeks and I’m continuing my protocol of naturopathic treatments. (On a side note: many people message me with a variety of cancer cures, but I’m so grateful for and perfectly at peace with how God has led us to wed allopathic and naturopathic treatments for my body’s unique needs and cancer diagnosis.) God is graciously using these myriad treatments and daily protocols to

Colleen Elisabeth Chao November 2, 2022

Beauty

The Woman in the Mirror

The Woman in the Mirror tells me I’m almost 44. Which is crazy because just yesterday I was 33. And the day before that I was 22. But there’s no denying it: once-covert wrinkles now flaunt themselves; previously perky-and-woke skin now slumbers. It’s all kinds of awkward to age, people. Even my hormones have formed an alliance with my hair roots—to overthrow any last vestiges of youth. 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

Colleen Elisabeth Chao February 12, 2020

Cancer

The gift of cancer

Four months ago I found a lump in my breast. And the Spirit clearly said, “This lump is a gift.” ~ ~ ~ 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

Colleen Elisabeth Chao November 24, 2017

anxiety

God is with me in my panic attack

I was 25 years old when I scored my dream job—working as an editor on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. After growing up in California, I fell head-over-heels in love with the East Coast and decided I’d stay put. 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

Colleen Elisabeth Chao June 4, 2017

Community

We need each other

I’ll never forget Miss Moss, with her Coke-bottle glasses and a disability that left her slow and kind. She loved writing notes of encouragement even though her handwriting was chicken-scratchy and sloped down the page. And Earl Roland. He was a hunched old man who loved to pray. In the absence of an acceptable singing voice he’d mastered the art of whistling, and he whistled loud and strong through the hymns we sang in church. So to honor him we whistled “A Mighty Fortress” at his memorial service. I remember little old women in polyester who fawned over me, and the wrinkled man in a wheelchair who had a big black Bible and said, “But God…!” (Because he knew stuff the rest of us didn’t yet understand.) But it wasn’t just the old and the weak that made a strong impression on me. Roland and Naomi were seminary students in their late twenties when I was a teen. They never missed an opportunity to love on me. When I graduated from high school and no one else my age was left at church, they invited me to join their young married small group. Roland and Naomi wanted children but their arms remained empty. I watched them navigate barrenness with quiet trust, and it changed me. And there were friendships forged over food. My parents set the stage for rich and relaxed community by hosting myriad meals, even on a shoestring budget. Neighbors, newcomers to church, out-of-town friends, they all gathered around our table and lit up our home. Missionaries-on-furlough ate pot roast and told stories from the field. Giddy newlyweds talked of love over casserole. Sharing meals with people seemed as natural as, well…. eating…. and left me with an incurable taste for joy. And what I couldn’t have put into words then, but I understand to the marrow of my bones now, is that community is life. It grows you up. It anchors you down. It humbles you. It heals you. It’s laughter. It’s tears. It’s the warp and woof of our existence. Now I’m the one with a family, and we’re living in the fastest-paced generation in the history of mankind. Despite some physical limitations that naturally slow us down, our family can still find ourselves dashing here and there, squinting sideways at our calendar to see how we’ll squeeze in another birthday party or baby shower, and communicating instantaneously with dozens of people in the course of one day. My husband and I have to regularly fight against the tug of too much. We keep asking ourselves, “How do we pursue authentic, consistent, unhurried relationships? How do we do this in a way that builds up our family and doesn’t splinter us in a dozen different directions?” How can we make sure our son doesn’t miss rubbing shoulders with the Miss Mosses and Earl Rolands of this world? The old and the weak, we miss them when we’re in too much of a hurry. We haven’t stumbled upon any easy answers. Community looks so different for each one of us, in each new season of our lives. And as soon as we think we’ve found our groove and figured it all out, life changes. The mom with three small children, the overseas missionary, the 50-year-old with aging parents, the one who’s chronically sick—they’ll tell you there’s no cookie-cutter shape for community. But one thing’s for certain: we need each other. We can’t work through our yuck, see our blindspots, grow in grace, and experience joy on an island (no matter how exotic it might be). And while God alone is more than enough for us—and He should be our first and greatest relationship—He knows we will love and understand Him more when we’re living in authentic relationship with others. So we prioritize it: Be with others. Set food on the table and open the front door. Tell each other our stories. Confess sin to a friend. Meet a tangible need. Laugh together. Pray together. Sit quietly with a grieving one. Seek the wisdom of older friends. Forgive each other. Say yes to an offer of help. And say “no.” A lot. Say no to relationships that bring out the worst in us and distract us from God’s purposes (Proverbs 13:20). Say no to pleasing everyone. Say no to doing it all. I’m not sure if it’s just me, but a too-large social circle and a bleeding calendar are some of my greatest hindrances to loving others with authenticity and joy. I’m so grateful for the kaleidoscope of people who shaped my world when I was a child, and those who continue to shape it now. I pray that someday my son will also tell of how he was molded not only by us, his parents, but also by the people we did life with: the young and the old, the weak and the strong. I pray his identity in Christ will grow within the context of community. Dear one, this world feels half crazy, doesn’t it? But our God has not left us alone. He is with us and He has given us everything we need for life and godliness—including His people, “the excellent ones in whom is all my delight.”

Colleen Elisabeth Chao July 13, 2016

Motherhood

Raise that warrior

I don’t write much about motherhood because I don’t know much yet. I have one son, and he’s just four years old. But it doesn’t take experience to know what I’m about. I am raising a warrior. I’m not called to raise a cute conversation piece or a popular kid. I’m not laying down my life so that my son can set the curve, break the record, or earn me bragging rights. I’m about the business of raising a warrior of wisdom who loves Jesus, for “those who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the sky above, and those who turn many to righteousness, like the stars forever and ever” (Daniel 12:3). Through years of teaching other people’s kids, mentoring youth, and counseling teenage girls in crisis, I saw and heard a lot. I don’t need years of parenting to know that the enemy of our souls wants to devour my son. It’s war out there, and I’m called to raise a warrior—to intercede for, train, love, and prepare him “to shine…in the midst of a crooked and twisted generation” (Philippians 2:15). And I’m scared. I’m scared because I’m called to an unspeakable task—the nurture and care of an eternal soul. I’m just one insignificant woman who has monumental weaknesses. I’m scared because I don’t get guarantees for how my son will turn out. Just because I train him to be a warrior, doesn’t mean he will be one. He has his own soul and accountability before God. I’m scared of raising a young man in Southern California where flesh is god and entertainment is king. But God understands my fears and speaks to them. In Nehemiah 4, when the Israelites were working tirelessly to rebuild the wall of Jerusalem, their enemies came to taunt them and thwart their efforts. Nehemiah rallied the people to continue their noble work in the midst of hostility and danger: “Do not be afraid of them. Remember the Lord, who is great and awesome, and fight for your brothers, your sons, your daughters, your wives, and your homes.” Fight for your son, Colleen. But how? Remember the Lord, who is great and awesome, and don’t be afraid of: …weakness, …failure, …worst-case scenarios. This great endeavor called motherhood is worth fighting the fear that accompanies it. Faith is not the absence of fear; it is the ability to believe God in the midst of great fear. Faith says, “I cannot, but God can.” Because God is great and awesome, and because His Spirit lives in me, I can fight for my son, for his eternal joy in Jesus, no matter what. FEAR VS. GOD Fear complicates things and tempts me to find refuge in methods and formulas and reactions. What kind of education and home life and church and social circle will ensure my son’s safety and success? Fear takes my eyes off of Christ. When I fear, God gets small and my what-if’s get big. Unlike fear, God doesn’t complicate things. In Deuteronomy 6, He lays out the task of parenting with such simplicity it’s shocking: love God with everything I’ve got; keep His words close to my heart; then teach those words to my child as we go about our day together. Fear makes the goal feel unattainable, but God says, “Colleen, do the next thing—and while you do it, tell your son about Me.” When I recall to mind what I am about (raising a warrior to shine in a crooked generation) and Who it is that’s actually accomplishing this impossible feat (Christ Jesus Himself!), I can move past my fears and faithfully plow the fertile soil of my son’s soul. In other words, I fight by faith. I believe God. I take Him at His word. And I fight on my knees. I pray. (I need to pray more.) A soul is at stake, and there is only One who can rescue and redeem him. So I talk to my Lord, I plead with Him, weep before Him for my son. God has begun this good work in my motherhood, and He will be faithful to complete it. I will mess up a thousand times, and brokenness will mark my motherhood, but God will always draw me back to Himself, to the cross and the empty tomb, reminding me that the power that raised Christ from the dead is at work in me. I have only a handful of fleeting years to “train up my son in the way he should go” (Proverbs 22:6). I have no idea what tomorrow holds, but today is such a gift, and I have been given everything I need to accomplish the task before me. So today this weak inexperienced mama can, by God’s grace… Raise that warrior. This article also appears on the ERLC blog.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao July 19, 2015

Depression

When darkness seems to hide His face

**This article in no way intends to address the complex matters of mental health nor minimize the importance of modern medicine and psychiatric help that is available to those who suffer. I always encourage those who struggle with depression to seek professional support.** Depression first found me when I was an idealistic 19-year-old with plans to change the world. Panic attacks and obsessive thought patterns soon followed, and the promise and excitement of my 20s was to be often overshadowed by mental and emotional angst. I’d grown up reading the biographies of dead saints: men and women who gave up everything—from worldly comforts to their very lives—in order to love Jesus and love others. My young life was immeasurably shaped by the compelling examples of these courageous believers who accomplished great feats for the Kingdom of God. I had known they were broken too. Many had suffered cyclical depression as I was now experiencing in my 20s, and I clung to their stories of God’s faithfulness in their brokenness. I needed to know that others had walked this path before me and still been fruitful and effective in living out God’s purposes for them. But 17 years after my first depression—now a wife and mother at 36—yet another season of crippling panic attacks, insomnia, and darkness was upon me. The long-awaited joys of marriage and motherhood were finally mine, but I was struggling to string together three rational thoughts. I wrestled with God. Why had I waited 15 years for such joys, simply to watch them snuffed out by this demon depression? It was then that I first laid eyes on an old paperback that would serve as the light at the end of my tunnel: Genius, Grief and Grace. The book boasted 11 case studies of saints, written by widely acclaimed British psychiatrist, Gaius Davies. I opened it with a kind of desperate hopefulness. Many of the saints in these pages were already familiar to me. In fact, I felt as if I’d walked miles upon miles in their shoes through my years of poring over their stories. But these accounts promised a more clinical look at their sufferings, temperaments, and tendencies. Perhaps here I would see that “even the flaws in the prism of personality may demonstrate, in a special way, aspects of God’s grace.” That is what I longed to know—that I wasn’t incurably crazy. That even my tendency to depression and my personality flaws could be used to God’s glory. I believed it to be true, but in these pages I would see it proven as true. Through tears, I read of Martin Luther’s panic attacks and scrupulosity, as well as his chronic illness. I not only resonated with his weaknesses, but I also felt hope at Davies’ commentary: “It is not surprising that . . . he often experienced his inner strength as greater at times of physical weakness.” I could relate to that. Even in this dark season I saw God powerfully at work in and through me. Strangely, my weary heart soared to read that John Bunyan suffered an obsessional disorder (where “the person seems compelled to suffer the presence of thoughts and feelings that he or she would like to disown, but cannot”). This author of The Pilgrim’s Progress and 59 other books—a man of genius and incomparable imaginative powers—was at times riddled with “a perplexed and despairing mind.” By this point, Davies had me captivated. His tender and tactful treatment of both the heroic feats and the intrinsic frailties of these saints was a balm to my own feeble heart. The account of Lord Shaftesbury (the Englishman who helped bring an end to industrial child abuse) made me catch my breath: “He was by all accounts abnormally sensitive, and he was described as being without that extra skin needed to be tough in politics. But his heart drove him on, and his very clever brain and his iron will made him win against heavy odds.” Being too sensitive myself, and often placed in situations where I could have used a thicker skin, I rejoiced at Shaftesbury’s example: press on even when you’re not naturally qualified for the work God has called you to. I wish I had time and space to highlight the stories of Christina Rosetti, C. S. Lewis, Frances Havergal and five other giants of the faith, as sketched by the compassionate and competent hand of Dr. Gaius Davies. Dark seasons can be used as tools in God’s hands. Before modern medicine and diagnoses were available, both psychological and physiological disorders went largely untreated. Yet God was in even these unresolved issues. Illness and angst were tools wielded in his perfect hands, to do his children good and bring himself glory. Even with the unprecedented medical resources available to us today, God sometimes allows us to linger in physical and mental brokenness so that we know and love him more, and fulfill his purposes in our lives. While I will never experience the genius, success, and acclaim of these world-changers, I do have the same great Spirit living powerfully within me—to transform me into his image, “from one degree of glory to another.” As Bunyan said of Luther’s writing, so my heart says of Genius, Grief and Grace: “I found my condition in his experience, so largely and profoundly handled, as if his book had been written out of my own heart…” **This article was originally posted on December 9, 2014, and also appears on ERLC.com.

Colleen Elisabeth Chao December 9, 2014