The hero of my story

We begin by thinking we are the authors and heroes of our stories. We give ourselves a starring role. We start with plans, aspirations and expectations: studies, marriage, children, career. Perhaps our dreams have the appearance of selflessness: ministry, mission, service. But still we are the heroes, preferably sung rather than unsung. Our families flourish. Our ministries are fruitful. Our plans succeed.

And then they don’t. Earlier this year, I was at the hospital – again – with my chronically ill son. We walked past the room where my husband had chemotherapy two years ago. Sometimes I wonder if I imagined that chemotherapy has a smell, and then I walk down that corridor and realise, nope, it wasn’t just in my mind. It’s a chemical smell that sticks to the back of your throat and lingers in your nasal passages. One sniff, and I was swallowed up by memories: weeks of sitting by Steve’s hospital bed, and months of watching him endure chemotherapy. We’re now in that nervous waiting stage where we don’t know whether the cancer will return. In a few weeks, we’ll get the results of another scan. You learn not to dwell on it; but the awareness is always there, like something flickering at the edge of your sight. This has become my story; a very different story from the one I would have written for myself.

Life refuses to shape itself to the neat narratives we write for it. When you’re young, you lay your plans: you’ll study this course, get that job, marry, have this many kids, do these ministries. At some point you realise life isn’t turning out the way you thought it would. Sometimes, as in my case, this might be because life takes an unexpected turn – our son’s chronic ill health, my husband’s cancer – but often it’s simply because we’ve reached a certain age and our hopes haven’t been realised (aka: the midlife crisis). This can lead to grief and fear. But it’s also an opportunity to learn something we should have known already: that we’re not the author of our stories; God is. He is the one who ordains every one of our days (Psalm 139:16 cf. Prov 16:9).

God is the author of my story. And he’s a far better author than I could ever be. I wouldn’t have written so much hardship into the recent pages of our life. But as I look back, I’m surprised to realise that, in some ways, the suffering is the part I’m most grateful for. It’s helped me see just how weak I am, and driven me to rely on God’s strength. It’s chased me into his arms, and deepened my knowledge of him. It compels me to set my hope on eternity rather than this life, and moves me to comfort others with the comfort I’ve received (2 Cor 1:3-7). I don’t fear the future like I used to, because God has been with me in the darkest times. I have tested him, and he has proved true. His faithfulness seems tangible to me now, solid rock under my feet. My faith is more stable, my joy more intense, and Jesus more precious. No one would ask for it – the grief, pain and fear – but in God’s mercy I have gained more than I have lost.

Of course, this perspective is only possible at one of those pauses in the story when you stop and reflect on what is past. On the darker pages that perspective is lost. There was one morning – I don’t like to remember it – when I woke out of a deep sleep to gut-wrenching tears and faced fully, perhaps for the first time, what all this might mean: my husband gone and four children to bring up on my own. On that day going on seemed too hard, because I don’t want to live this story – who would? Yet I know that, however dark these pages – however hard it is to see now – the day will come when I will see and understand. For the author of this story is a master story-teller, and no sentence is wasted. He crafts every paragraph with care and precision. I may be bruised and battered and broken – sometimes I wonder if I will make it at all – but he turns my weakness into strength and my brokenness into blessing. This story may pass through darkness, yet in his hands, I know it will end in joy.

Better than that, this author hasn’t stayed outside the story, an omniscient, removed narrator; he has become a character on its pages. He knows what it is to cry out in the dark, and he is the one who overcomes the darkness. For in the end, this isn’t my story at all. Not only am I not the author of my story, I’m not the hero either. My part in this narrative serves to do one thing: highlight and direct attention to Jesus. He is the hero of this story, not me. My story is a tiny part of a much bigger one, the story of God making and winning a people for himself, from the creation of the first quark, to the crisis of the cross, to the climax when everything is brought under the kingship of the Son (1 Cor 15: 22-28; Eph 1:3-10; Col 1:15-20).

So forget me being the author of my story. The real Author is far more skilled than I am. Forget me being the hero of my story. Jesus is front and centre on all its pages. Forget this being my story. It’s God’s story, and it’s moving towards the glory of his Son. We’re all caught up in a bigger story, you and I, and that’s exactly the way it should be.

This post first appeared at The Gospel Coalition Australia

Image: Manuscript of David Copperfield, © Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

Psalm 90: A walk with Moses

It all gets swept away. Or perhaps it’s that we are swept away, like pieces of bark on a river, unable to turn back, pressed against snags and stones. The banks slide by; one glimpse, and the things we pass are gone. And finally, the inevitable: worn down by time and decay, we fragment, break apart, particles mixing into the water like dust.

Fragile. Troubled. Uncertain. That is life. A wild flower scorched by the sun, blown by the wind, its blossom fallen and its beauty forgotten (Ps 103:15-16; Job 14:2; Jas 1:10-11). Grass that springs up new in the morning but by evening is dry and withered (Ps 90:5; Isa 40:6-7). A fleeting breath, an evening shadow that fades away (Ps 102:11, 109:23, 144:4; Job 7:7, 8:9, 14:1-2).

It’s not a comfortable thought. But it’s not one that I can avoid. We live with the possibility that my husband’s cancer may return. My son’s chronic ill health continues. There are changes in work and ministry. My mentor, the woman who helps me navigate these things, is moving away.

Have you ever experienced an earthquake? I have. Though perhaps it was a meteorite that shook the ground—I don’t remember now. What I do remember is the nightmarish sensation of the earth moving underfoot, as if it had turned from solid to liquid; the sense that something you took for granted, didn’t even notice, firm under your feet, could no longer be counted on.

I am standing on shifting ground. Loss and grief and change threaten, and there is nothing I can do to control them. I want to cling to the things and people I depend on, hold tight and not let go. But I am helpless to stop the inevitable, protect those I love, prevent them from leaving, keep them whole, preserve their lives, my life, even for a day.

So I open Psalm 90. I walk with Moses, this “man of God” who knew such great salvation and such deep sorrow. If anyone was familiar with the fragility of life, it was Moses, who watched a whole generation die in the desert. His words are bleak: our days, even the best of them, are full of trouble and sorrow; they quickly pass and we fly away, swept up in the sleep of death, turned back to dust; our years, seventy or eighty if we have the strength, finish with a moan.

Yet there is something that will never change, and it is there in the opening verse of the Psalm: God himself. He is “our dwelling place in all generations”. “From everlasting to everlasting” he is Lord. “A thousand years” in his sight “are but as yesterday when it is past”. Like Moses, we cry to him for mercy, help and salvation, for his love does not fail. He alone can establish the work of our hands.

Life is brief, full of loss and change. The people and things we depend on are fragile and fleeting. We can’t hold onto them. We can’t even direct our own path. But there is one thing that never alters, one thing we can count on, and that is God himself. He is from everlasting to everlasting. He is our strong and secure dwelling place. We take refuge in him.

Father, “teach us to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom” (Ps 90:12).

This post first appeared at GoThereFor.com.

life in God's waiting room

I’ve been thinking about waiting. The waiting you do when your hopes and dreams have been deferred—again. The waiting you do when you’re offered the opportunity you longed for but have to turn it down—again. The waiting you do when the future is uncertain and your plans can only be tentative and provisional—again.

Waiting, through twelve years of raising young children and five years of our son’s chronic illness, for a time when I can do more of the ministry I love outside the home. Waiting, through my husband’s cancer diagnosis, a six-week hospital stay and half a year of chemotherapy, to be washed up on the shores of not-quite-ordinary life again. Waiting, now, for his medical scans, the fork in the road; one path leading to further treatment, the other to four more years of waiting until we receive the all-clear.

Waiting for the waiting to be over.

So what do I do, here in life’s waiting room? Do I choose escapism? Do I complain and grow resentful? I do both, sometimes. But surely there are better uses of this time.

Here’s how I see it. There are two possible things going on here.

The first is that this isn’t so much a waiting room as God’s training-ground. A hothouse where I’m grown in Christlike character (Jas 1:2-4). A boot-camp to strengthen the muscles of perseverance, humility and hope (Rom 5:3-4; 1 Pet 5:6-11). God’s university, where he teaches me to mourn with those who mourn (Rom 12:15) and gives me the comfort that I will one day share with others (2 Cor 1:3-7), preparing me for life and ministry.

The second is that this isn’t a waiting room for life; it is life. These hardships may continue for many years. In which case, this isn’t preparation for anything more than the hard slog of patient endurance. And that’s okay. Because if I never get to do the ministries I long for, and just keep encouraging others by trusting God in hardship, that will be sufficient service for a lifetime.

Come to think of it, those aren’t alternatives. They are different perspectives, views of the same reality from opposite sides. Whatever God has in store, this is both training for life and life itself. This is the life God has given us. You don’t stop living just because you are waiting.

So what do I do, here in the waiting room?

• I fulfil the duties of this time. I may not have chosen them—the doctors’ visits, the extra school trips, the weight of care—but this is the good work God has given me, and I try (and often fail!) to do it cheerfully, patiently and well. 
• I make the most of the time we have together as a family to build strong relationships as a foundation for whatever may come (I’ve planned more family holidays and weekends with my husband this year). 
• I train my own mind, and the hearts and minds of our children, to trust God during the trials we face now and the ones we may face in the future. 
• I remember all those who have waited: for an affliction to end (Ps 27:14), a prayer to be answered (Ps 5:3), a ministry to begin (Exod 7:7), a hope to be fulfilled (1 Sam 1), and (this includes all of us) for Jesus to return (Rev 22:20). I am not alone. 
• I put one foot in front of the other. Sometimes this means telling myself, “I know you feel lousy, but just do the next thing. It might make you feel a little better, and if it doesn’t, at least you will have finished one more task.” 
• I pray the prayers of those who wait (e.g. Ps 130), bringing my fear, grief, disappointment and frustration to God, turning to him rather than away from him. 
• I make plans that assume life will continue the way it is but that allow for uncertainty, then commit these plans into God’s hands (Jas 4:13-15). 
• I manage my energy levels so I can keep serving: a good night’s sleep, regular exercise, a daily time of rest, and a weekly morning off to read an encouraging book, pray, and reflect on life. 
• I live the ordinary Christian life wherever we are, from hospital to home (1 Pet 4:19). I read my Bible, pray for others, turn from sin, meet with God’s people, and try to use every opportunity to make Jesus known. 
• I choose ministries that I can maintain, that use my limited time effectively to meet others’ needs, and that allow for interruptions. It helps if some of these ministries energize me so I can fulfil my primary ministry to our family. 
• I learn the lessons that waiting teaches me: that we may plan, but God directs our steps (Prov 16:9); that the building of his kingdom doesn’t depend on our usefulness (Ps 127:1-2; 1 Cor 3:7-9); that his grace is sufficient for every day he gives us to face (2 Cor 12:9-10). 
• I fight to choose contentment, thanksgiving, trust, and joy (1 Thess 5:16-18), remembering that God’s plans for me are better than any I could make for myself.

I don’t want to waste this time in the waiting room. I want to use it, every bit of it. Whether it turns out to be a waiting room or simply the life God has given us, I want to be able to look back and say: I did the work God gave me to do, in his strength and for his glory. And that is more honour than I deserve, and joy and privilege enough for me.

This article first appeared at GoThereFor.com.

Photo credit: Erich Ferdinand

contentment (7) significance

What makes you feel significant? Where does your identity come from? Whose opinion do you value? When do you feel good about yourself? What gives you a sense of worth?

Maybe it’s doing well in your career, staying fit and healthy, or being in a relationship. Maybe it’s your IQ, attractiveness, or creativity. Maybe it’s ministry, being a “good” person, or belonging to a certain church or cultural group. We look to all kinds of things to make ourselves feel worthwhile ...

One of my friends was ill for many months. She lay in bed, stared at the trees outside the window, and felt useless. She couldn’t work, care for others, or even carry out the basic tasks of each day. As she lay there, she learned an important truth: that God loves her just as much when she can’t do anything for him, as he does when she can do things that feel significant.

God doesn’t love us because we have value. We have value because he loves us. ...

You can read the rest at The Gospel Coalition Australia

contentment (1) at a time like this

A good friend of mine agreed to give talks on a woman’s conference. The topic? Contentment. A few weeks before the conference, she found out she might have breast cancer. She gave the talks anyway.

If you can’t talk about contentment at a time like this, when can you?

Five years ago, my son got sick. The doctor thought it was whooping cough. But instead of getting better, he started getting worse. He was home from school for weeks at a time, and then for months. He was finally diagnosed with chronic daily headaches and migraines complicated by chronic fatigue syndrome. He has learned to manage his condition, but he still suffers daily. His illness prompted me to add the topic of contentment to the teaching schedule for our women’s group.

If you can’t talk about contentment at a time like this, when can you?

Just over a year ago, my husband began to experience strange symptoms. He grew weaker and weaker. Medical tests came up blank. He started vomiting, became unable to keep any food down, and was hospitalised. We found out he had a rare small bowel cancer that couldn’t be picked up in the usual scans. Two months after major surgery and at the beginning of six months of chemotherapy, I was due to give a talk on contentment. I could have cancelled, but something told me there would never be a better time. ...

Read the rest at The Gospel Coalition Australia.

what I'm reading: suffering as vocation

"Suffering is a vocation, a calling from God."

Eight words on the first page of RC Sproul's Surprised by suffering, and I'm stopped in my tracks. I've never heard anyone say that before. I think it's a knowledge Christians lost somewhere along the way. Yet the awareness has been nudging at me for years, and it's good to hear someone say it.

Suffering. It's the calling no one wants. The gift no one asks for. "For it has been granted to you on behalf of Christ not only to believe in him, but also to suffer for him" (Phil 1:29). The word "granted" literally means "gifted". But who would want a gift like that?

You know what I thought my life would be like? What I saw as my vocation? How I thought I'd use my gifts? Marriage. Children. An active ministry to women.

Tick to the first two. But the last one has been put on hold more times then I can count. The year my youngest child went back to school, when many women edge their way back into work and ministry outside the home, my oldest son became chronically ill. I spent four years caring for him and, last year, for my husband who has cancer.

Do I resent this? Well, yes, sometimes, when I'm tempted to compare myself with others. But truly, no. My love for my husband and son has deepened. And like many who have suffered, I wouldn't swap what I have learned about God's love for anything. What I used to know in theory, I now know from experience: there really is nothing he will not give us grace to face.

But of course part of me asks: what happened to the life I planned?

Here's what happened: God had better plans for us. Harder and better ones. We run this race in the sight of others. And if we have to make Jesus known through our pain and our tears, then so be it. Because I would rather have this life with him than my carefully planned life without him.

Right now, we're called to the vocation of suffering. It's a high calling, and a hard one. It will drive you away from God, or drive you deeper into his love: there are only two ways about it. If we choose to turn to him, even when it hurts, he will never let us down or let us go.

I was going to tell you more about the book Surprised by Suffering, but my thoughts got stuck on the first page. I'll save the rest for another day. For the moment, this knowledge is enough:

"Suffering is a vocation, a calling from God."

on the path to the cancer ward

There's a chemical smell that hits you on the way to the cancer centre. Some bright spark of an architect put the building's main vents just near the entrance doors. Every time you walk up the path, the smell of chemo hits you. Once you've been to an oncology ward, you don't forget that smell.

Every two weeks, we drive to Steve's appointment in heavy silence. We drag our feet up that path while I try not to breathe in. We sit in the chairs in the hallway; he stares into space while I fight back tears and fight down panic. A nurse calls his name, shows him to a chair: a green vinyl recliner, more suited to watching TV than to having poison pumped into your veins. We wait for the slow drip-drip! drip-drip! of the drugs.

The aim of Steve's chemo is curative. Or so they keep reminding us. I think it's to help us "stay positive". It doesn't help much. Doctors are relatively confident about colorectal tumours, and that's how they're treating Steve's small bowel cancer; but no one knows much about this rare disease.

Except God, of course. He knows every cell in Steve's body, and he is not at the mercy of statistics or uncertain prognoses or rare cancers. And so we fight to trust him.

And it has been a fight. Steve grieves the half-life he's forced to live. From days full of active ministry, to days lying on a couch, watching the cricket, and occasionally playing a game with the kids or getting some shopping or going for a slow walk down the street: it might sound like a holiday, but if so, this is no Hawaii.

The side-effects of chemo - nausea (controlled by steroids that give you sleepnessness instead of vomiting), numbing fatigue, brain-fog, peripheral neuropathy (tingling and numbness in fingers and toes), and a throat spasm that turned out to be a rare reaction to one of the chemicals - are hard to endure and hard to watch.

The last month has been easier for Steve. Two cycles ago they took him off one of the two main chemo drugs (he's still on the most important one) and the symptoms have reduced. He's past the worst of the chemo. Two more treatments, and that's the end for now. He is already easing his way back into work, and is coping well.

There will be further tests over the next few years to check if the cancer has returned. Waiting becomes our new normal, and we try to live as if we're not waiting. The kids go back to school, and I enjoy the space and silence. I begin to do more chores and start work on a talk. We plan a family holiday.

I've discovered that grief travels in three directions: past, present, and future. The trauma of what we've gone through; the struggle to accept our changed lives; fearful anticipation of what is to come. Sadness is like a backpack of rocks you carry around: you forget it for a while, stop and enjoy the view, but always it's there, and there are days when it feels too heavy to bear.

In the dark times, when I can't feel my way, I am often surprised by the strong light of God's word. Here's the passage that has lit my way recently:

Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.

Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith, because you know that the family of believers throughout the world is undergoing the same kind of sufferings.

And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast. To him be the power for ever and ever. Amen. (1 Peter 5:7-1)

Humble yourself under God's hand. Cast your fears on him. Resist Satan's attempts to undermine your faith. Remember you're not alone. Remember this is just for a little while. Remember God will lift you up and restore you and make you strong

To God be the glory. Amen.


If you'd like regular updates on how we're going, you can "like" this page on Facebook: Pray for Steve.

my times are in your hands

"My times are in your hands" (Psalm 31:5) - two days in a row we received this verse in a card in the mail.

A wonderful reminder that it is God who ordains and numbers our days (Psalm 139:6; Job 14:5) - not, ultimately, illness or health professionals.

Jesus said, "Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?" (Luke 12:25) - an encouragement against health anxiety.

Our times are in his hands.

how we're going

I have started and abandoned this post a few times now. I want to let you know how we are going - those of you who don't already know - but such a huge amount has happened since I wrote about Steve's diagnosis and surgery that it defies fitting into a blog post!

Here it is in miniature:

- 10 weeks ago my husband Steve was diagnosed with adenocarcinoma of the third and fourth sections of the duodenum (at the top end of the small bowel) after half a year of strange symptoms; it caused a blockage and he became unable to keep down solid food.

The tumour was removed successfully, for which we praise God (the surgeons were surprised at the success of the surgery). It was a stage 3 tumour - it had already spread to the lymph nodes - but there were no visible secondaries or spread to local organs, and the margins were clear.

- Steve spent a very long 5 1/2 weeks in hospital, and I spent much of that time with him while Mum cared for our 4 children at home.

They were strange weeks of shuffling walks down hospital corridors, wheeling him to a sunny courtyard every day (all the doctors say, "Sit in the sun while you recover from surgery"), sitting by Steve's bed while he suffered silently, getting him wet facecloths or blankets, reading the Bible to him and praying, or writing and looking out the window.

Hard days of diagnosis and grief, fear and surgery, tears and nausea; a terrible day when he had a septic shower (due to an infected haematoma) and I thought I would lose him; days of discouragement and slow, slow recovery.

- We have been home for 4 1/2 weeks now. You look forward to escaping hospital, so it's a bit of a shock to discover you have brought all the difficulties home with you. Of course, you knew this would happen, but it's hard all the same.

That said, it is wonderful for Steve to be home and for us to have him home. It has been slow, but his digestive system is gradually recovering from surgery. He can eat a little more, and we are learning to manage the issues caused by whipple-style digestive re-plumbing (for those in the know, he still has his pancreas and stomach, which makes it easier).

- He started chemotherapy - to mop up the remaining cancer cells in his system - 2 weeks ago. He had his second treatment this morning and it went fine. The treatments are in a beautiful new oncology room with a wall of windows looking out into the canopy of a huge oak tree.

He will have 12 treatments, God willing, every 2 weeks for 6 months. Already there have been unpleasant side effects, and they will increase over time. And so the next 6 months are going to be challenging.

The chemo will be followed by scans to check if the cancer has gone. I guess that will be a whole new stage of waiting, praying, hoping and trusting. We are planning a family holiday for after chemo if Steve is well enough.

- Many, many things have changed. Steve lost work, ministry and health. I lost ministry and have taken on the role of a carer to Steve as well as to our chronically ill son. We are at a different church now, just down the street from our house: our old church is too far to travel at the moment.

There is a lot of trauma and grief to process. My health hasn't been good due, I guess, to the stress, but I am beginning to recover. Our kids are doing okay and processing what has happened in their own ways.

It is the most beautiful Spring here in Melbourne. I go for walks and rejoice to see the new leaves of oaks and elms opening against the sky; sit by the lake nearby and listen to music or cry and pray.

We are learning a lot about endurance and persevering in faith, about turning and looking to Jesus, about trusting the Father's plans for our lives and seeking to glorify him. I love and live in the psalms more than ever (psalms 61-63 are my new favourites).

Steve and I are reading John Piper's tiny booklet Don't Waste Your Cancer together in the evenings. At one or two paragraphs a day, it's just about the right length! It's been very helpful and challenging.

We are upheld by many people's prayers, practical support and encouragement. If you have been praying, thank you so much!

And thanks too to our great God who loved us enough to give up his only Son to die for us, who understands suffering from the inside out, and whose love never fails.

For regular updates you can "like" this page on Facebook: Pray for Steve.

this is life now

The days are long and hard. It is not easy to be pulled out of your ordinary life - your work, your ministry, your taken-for-granted health - and put in the middle of every day, all day sickness, on top of the many demands of daily life, sadness, and fear for the future. There is so much loss and so many changes to adjust to, for all of us.

Yet there are also blessings. This beautiful Spring weather. The sunshine. Our love for each other. Those who care and pray for us. God's incredibly comforting word. The knowledge that our Father is in control and he is good. And Jesus, who has walked this path before us and for us.

Thank you for your prayers, friends. Please keep praying for hope and healing.

And if you want regular updates, you can find them at Pray for Steve

a visit means more than a text

One of the things I admire about my mother is that she gets involved in other people's lives.

Now that she doesn't have children at home, and is working less, on her way to retirement, she could use her extra time for herself. Instead, she uses much of it for others.

She helps out at the local primary school. She looks after an elderly lady in a local nursing home. She cares for her brothers and sisters. She visits the sick.

She's like those older women - the Bible calls them "widows" (which my mum is not, but I think it's a similar stage of life) - who use their time and energy to serve (1 Tim 5:9-10; Acts 9:36-42). I hope to be like her one day.

Here's a story that encouraged me to get involved too.

It's about a friend of my mum's who lives a long way from her family.

Mum had just received a message from her friend to say her sister had died.

My mother wasn't far away: she was driving near her friend's house. It would have been easy to send a text and go home.

But that's not what she did.

She went and sat with her friend that morning. She hugged her and listened and shared her sorrow.

Her friend said,

"You know, there were lots of people who sent their sympathy via emails and text messages. But you came. You visited.

"That meant more to me than all of those texts put together."

In these days of emails and texts and instant messaging, it's so easy to contact someone and think we've done what needs to be done.

But I hope, next time I'm in a situation like this, that I remember: a visit means more than a text.

If we can, we just need to be there.

how we're going

Well, the chronic pain team at the hospital has graduated Ben from their program. I feel in equal parts abandoned and relieved.

Abandoned, because Ben still has a chronic pain condition, and we're on our own now. (We're not, of course. But that's how it feels.)

Relieved, because they obviously think we're on the right track, and we no longer have to do three hour round trips through heavy traffic.

And yes, Ben is making steady progress:

• our family is going out soon to celebrate that he was at school for at least a couple of hours nearly every day last term, headache and all
• we were expecting his energy levels to deteriorate by the end of term, but he was actually getting a little better, which suggests this approach is working
• he recently enjoyed a full day's party with four friends; three months ago he could barely manage two hours with one friend
• he also did an intense bushwalk; three months ago he could only do 30 minute's flat walk.

On the other hand, Ben only managed two full days last term, and they didn't go brilliantly. We're aiming for two full days a week this term, but we haven't made it yet. Meanwhile, there are lots of school drop-offs and pick-ups and interrupted days. It's never easy to take a child to school when he's in pain.

So it's over to us. Perseverance, daily exercise, perseverance, getting enough sleep, perseverance ... we - or, rather, Ben - have to keep working away at this thing until he is well.

Which he will be. In time. Humanly speaking, and God willing. For most children with this condition, the journey out is as long as the journey in (and that was several years).

If I forget how far we've come, I only have to think back to the bewilderment and desperation of four months ago. These days, I don't burst into tears when I'm in a safe environment and people ask me how I am (though I'm not promising anything). I'm no longer battling high levels of anxiety and panic.

Ben's pain no longer feels like "my issue", something I'm suffering as much as him. This is good for both of us. It means he doesn't bear the burden of my sorrow as well as his own. It means I can see things clearly and support him well. It means he learns, as he must, to manage his health independently.

And what has this all done for Ben? Only God knows. But I've watched him grow in resilience and patience. I've seen his self-awareness and wisdom increase. I've helped him dig deep into the Bible's teaching on suffering, and take from it God's comfort and strength.

He's as tall as me now, thirteen years old, and his voice is as deep as his father's. The outer, visible changes mirror the ones within.

what I'm reading: in sickness, what should I pray?

Because I believe his plans for me are better than what I could plan for myself, rather than run away from the path he has set before me, I want to run toward it. I don't want to try to change God's mind—his thoughts are perfect. I want to think his thoughts. I don't want to change God's timing—his timing is perfect. I want the grace to accept his timing. I don't want to change God's plan—his plan is perfect. I want to embrace his plan and see how he is glorified through it. I want to submit.

Nancie and David Guthrie lost two babies to Zellweger syndrome, a rare genetic disease. Their second child Hope only lived for six months, and it wasn't an easy life: "These babies are blind, probably deaf, unable to suck, coo, or respond in any intentional way".

Knowing that there was a one in four chance that any other child would have the disease, David underwent a vasectomy; but Nancy became pregnant, and prenatal testing showed that this baby would also die. They lost Gabriel at six months.

You can imagine that they were encouraged to pray for healing. I'm sure they did, and rightly so. But Nancy says - and I think she's right - that there are bigger and better things to pray for.

Often, I see the body of Christ put so much into pursuing God for healing. With great boldness and passion and persistence, we cry out to God, begging for physical healing. And in these prayers, there is often a tiny P.S. added at the end where we say, 'If it be your will.'

But shouldn't we switch that around?

Shouldn't we cry out to God with boldness and passion and persistence in a prayer that says, "God, would you please accomplish your will? Would you give me a willing heart to embrace your plan and your purpose? Would you mold me into a vessel that you can use to accomplish what you have in mind?" And then, perhaps, we could add a tiny P.S. that says, "and if that includes, healing, we will be grateful."

Isn't real faith revealed more through pursuing God and what He wants than by pursuing what I want?

We often hear people talk about the "victorious Christian life." But isn't the life of a Christian really more about bending the knee, humbling ourselves, and taking up a cross?

I don't know what the cross will look like for you. I just know it will require a death to your desires and your dreams to carry it. And it won't be easy.

But I also know that as you die to yourself. God's life will take root and grow within you.

Holding on to Hope 78-81.

how we're going (and a bit about chronic pain)

Well, friends, it feels like we've just passed through a very dark tunnel; but we're beginning to see the light at the end (cliche, anyone?). Hope feels fragile and uncertain, like we can't quite put our weight on it. But I am so thankful to God for his mercy to our family.

Ben and I visited the OT at the hospital last week, and were actually told - get this! - that we might be seeing too many doctors, and did we want to stop seeing her? We didn't (she's wonderful); but we did put off our next appointment for a month.

Picture me mentally dancing around the room at the thought that we might not have 3-hour-round-trip doctors' visits most weeks, and sometimes twice a week, this term!

If I'm tempted to hopelessness - and I am - I only have to compare the start of this term to the last one. It was a black dog of a term, take it any way you like. Endless trips to doctors and the hospital. Ben still missing heaps of school. By the end, I was battling pretty intense anxiety. In God's grace, I'm recovering; and Ben is looking healthier and stronger.

Looking back, here were some turning points:

• Ben's diagnoses after a few years of illness: migraines (2012) and chronic daily headaches (2013)
• a phone-call I made to the paediatrician late last term, when I said, "This can't go on. I think Ben's just going to have to go to school even when he's feeling horrible!" and she said, "Yes." Hard, but good.*
• attending a pain education clinic and reading a book on chronic pain. I now understand what we did to contribute to this situation (ouch!) and what we can do to help Ben get better.
• a meeting with the hospital psychologist in the final week of last term, when she said, "You need to stop asking Ben about his pain." I did, and it helps him to focus less on his pain and more on living.
• 2 weeks holidays and lots of exercise - soccer, ropes' course, boogy boarding - helped Ben regain strength and energy.

Here's what I'm learning about chronic pain:

• Chronic pain can happen when you respond to ongoing pain as you would to acute pain.
• You rest, so your body becomes weak. 
• You protect the area, and your nerves become super-sensitive. 
• You get help, but begin to rely on others. 
• You avoid danger, until everything looks dangerous. 
• The result is that your whole system becomes oversensitised to pain. Your nerves grow extra sensors. Your brain lays down pathways that reinforce the pain. Your nervous system becomes overly responsive to stress. Migraines often turn into chronic daily headaches this way.
• What's needed is to reset your system. Your brain needs to learn new pathways; your nerves need to be desensitized; your body needs to be strengthened. Normal function generally returns before pain decreases. A slow process!

Here's the plan (otherwise known as "how to deal with chronic pain in children 101"**):

• get on with life despite the pain, slowly and steadily, as you are able. Don't focus on the pain (and, if you're a bystander, don't ask about it); instead, do things that distract you. This turns down the brain's awareness of pain.
• set achievable individual goals - e.g. a 2 hour visit with friends every weekend - and build up slowly
• pace yourself: 16 hours playing with your brothers on the weekend is great, but you need regular short breaks to rest, or you'll overload your system
• gradually work your way back into normal life as your system re-adjusts - we're planning Ben's first full day's school next week (now put off by a week due to migraines - such is our halting progress!). By the end of the year, our goal, God willing, is for Ben to be doing full weeks.
• get daily exercise: swimming, walking, strength training ... Some kids have to start by walking to the door and back again. Thankfully, we're further on than this, but it takes perseverance and commitment.
• learn to do relaxation exercises, because anxiety contributes to chronic pain. Ben dislikes these, so we're still working on this one!
• learn to read your body, manage your stress, and know when you need rest. Ben is getting very good at this.

So we start this term with new energy and new hope. Last week, Ben did 4 1/2 hour school days, as planned, though he was in pain every day. This week a full-blown migraine shortened his days, but he's making it to a bit of school each day - a great achievement. If he goes downhill, we'll rethink things. But at least we now understand what is happening and what to do.

Thank God for his mercy and his grace, and keep praying for us. God hears and answers your prayers.


* If this sounds remarkably like advice I received many months earlier, let's just say that it takes time and experience to realise just how much pain it's possible to be in, yet for it still to be the right thing to go to school.
** Disclaimer: I am not a professional, and this is not medical advice. You can find a good practical guide to some of the current thinking on chronic pain at MoodJuice.

God’s gifts in suffering (4) Suffering deepens our knowledge of God

For I know that the Lord is great,
and that our Lord is above all gods.
Whatever the Lord pleases, he does,
in heaven and on earth,
in the seas and all deeps. (Psalm 135:5,6)

I write this post with a heavy heart, because we are neck-deep in this particular season of suffering. It’s not showing any signs of letting up, at least for now. It’s only bearable because God no longer seems like a stranger.

Of all the effects of suffering, this is one of the most disquieting: the God I meet in suffering is different from the God I thought I knew. It’s as if you turn to a friend and catch an expression on their face that you never expected to see there. Your wife of twenty years does something so completely out of character that you wonder if you really know her. Your father turns out to be fundamentally different to the man you loved and respected all these years.

The fault, of course, doesn’t lie with God. It never did. It’s that we live with unconscious assumptions about God and his dealings towards us, beliefs that would probably horrify us if we pulled them into the light (“I am exempt.” “God will do what I ask.” “That would never happen to me.”). So we leave our assumptions hidden and unquestioned, where they lend us a kind of empty comfort. The worst will never come, because… (here we fill in our own A, B and C).

This can happen even if we are well-prepared, our theology of suffering carefully laid down. In my early 20s, I read How Long O Lord, because we were told that those who read this book would be ready for suffering when it came. There was great truth in that. I still repeat this lesson to those younger than me. I don’t know how I would have weathered this storm without a strong doctrine of God’s sovereignty and goodness in suffering. But it doesn’t matter how prepared you are, suffering always comes as a surprise.

The storm front approaches, but you don’t see it coming. The world crumbles, the earth shakes, and you cry out in shock. Cracks appear in your theology. Suffering forces its way in and wedges them apart. They grow bigger and bigger, until your view of God threatens to collapse like a house on the sand. Suffering shows you the weak points. It enlarges them and says, “There!”.

I’m sure the weak points are different for everyone, but in my case, as I watch my son trudge through days of pain, it doesn’t take long to realise there’s something odd about my view of God’s providence. I can’t understand why medicine helps but God, it seems, doesn’t. Is it that he can’t? Or that he won’t? I know it’s not the first, but I can’t quite get my head around the second.

My son’s doctors, on the other hand, seem eager to help. They can’t do much, but what they can do, they do. It’s the same with the people around me. So why does God seem so unwilling? Why is he depending on medicine, when he could heal with a single thought? At some level, a level I barely dare to acknowledge, I ask, “Doesn’t he want to? Is he powerless? Does he care?”

So I turn to the same place I turned to all those years ago. I open How Long O Lord and struggle through those last, difficult chapters on God’s providence. I begin to read Joni Tada Eareckson and Stephen Estes’ When God Weeps, and Paul Grimmond’s Suffering Well. I search the Scriptures, and painstakingly rebuild my theology, brick by brick, starting with these words by Don Carson:

A miracle is not an instance of God doing something for a change; it is an instance of God doing something out of the ordinary. That God normally operates the universe consistently makes science possible; that he does not always do so ought to keep science humble.1

An odd paragraph to bring so much comfort; but comfort me it does. I begin to see that the God who made and sustains the universe works through medicine as well as what we call “miracles”: they are both gifts direct from his hands. Health slowly and painstakingly regained, or never regained at all, is as much an indication of his love as instant healing. What he wants to do in us may take time and hardship. His plans for us are bigger and better than the ones we make for ourselves.

The God I am getting to know is no cheap-and-easy vending machine: put in a dollar, get out a chocolate bar. He’s our Father, wise beyond knowing. His mercy is severe and his love relentless. He may never give us what we ask for, and we may never know why; but this God, who gave his only Son to die for us, who knows suffering from the inside out, can be trusted to be just and loving and good. As my knowledge of him deepens, he no longer seems like a stranger. I run into his arms and find comfort and strength and a secure refuge (Ps 46:1).

The God I meet in suffering isn’t the God I thought I knew. He’s better.


1. Don Carson, How Long O Lord, page 217.

rules to live by

There is a boy. He sits in a room, surrounded by adults, in a circle of adults. He speaks calm words about himself, about the last three years of his life, about this thing they call chronic daily headaches, about the pain and its beats and measures. He is not calm, but you wouldn't know it. She knows, because later he tells her.

There is a woman, his mother. She is silent, allowing him to speak. She shifts in her chair, and her jeans make an embarrassing noise on the vinyl. She hopes no one heard. She knows they probably did, this room full of attentive adults. She crosses her legs. She crosses them the other way. She listens. She waits her turn.

There are six other adults in the room, four women, two men, members of the chronic pain management team. Twelve eyes to look at the boy and his mother, twelve eyes and three hours of questions. Six different breeds of medical professional: male, female, old, young, serious, kind. They are all kind, so kind. She feels pinned by their gaze.

They ask the boy questions about the pain, how often, since when, what sets it off, what helps, where it is, how it feels. Mostly he can answer them (he's heard them before). Sometimes he can't. The questions have beaten him into silence, too many questions. How can he quantify the pain? How can he put a number to it? What if he is wrong? He has started to ask himself, what if he is a coward, when others experience far worse pain than this?

The boy wears soft grey pants and a grey jumper with a fur-lined hood. The soft edges protect him from the hard edges of their questions. As they walk to the meeting, he pulls the hood up, but his mother pulls it down. He runs his hand through his hair, and she smooths it down.

They notice this. They notice everything. They ask if he likes soft clothes. He does. His mother listens, fascinated, but she wonders what this has to do with anything. She wonders what anything has to do with anything. What are they observing about him, about her? What connections are they drawing? What are they thinking? Why won't they tell her?

They take him from the room. Two adults gone, four left plus her. They question her. They ask about his developmental milestones, relationships, intelligence, family history. Some answers she knows (she's familiar with this line of questioning). Some answers she can't remember (she should have brought his baby book). She asks herself, Why can't I remember? Why don't I know? Does it matter that I don't know?

More questions. What are his thought processes like? Positive or negative? You say positive? But what about these times? What about those? She knows, she doesn't know. She says to ask him.

He returns to the room. They ask him. He answers, or tries to answer. She marvels at the delicate balance of mind and body, so finely tuned, so easily knocked awry. Has she done this? Did they do something wrong, or not do something right? This beautiful, strong, loving boy. What have they done?

The boy and his mother are sent away for fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes of buying him a sausage roll, sitting in the sun, exclaiming at the spinning doors, wondering what conversations are happening in their absence. They return.

And they are told that they are doing okay. They are doing the right things. The doctors they are already seeing - those doctors with all their questions - are doing the right things. Maybe they could change his medication. They should probably bring him back for some physiotherapy. Oh, and there's a pain clinic he could attend. And some more questionnaires to fill in. And the occupational therapist would like to see him. The boy's mother adds the appointments to a diary full of doctors' visits. But, they say, you are doing well. We approve.

She feels relieved. The boy smiles, shifts in his chair. And it's all okay. And none of it is okay.

There is an art to this, an art she has not yet learned. To allow their lives to be examined, probed, dissected, cut open like a rat on the table. To remain undefensive, receptive. To be grateful, to listen and absorb. To know this matters immensely, could mean the difference between health and sickness. To know this doesn't always matter, the doctors don't always know, don't always agree, aren't always right.

To try things, all the time not knowing. To work away at the pain, increment by imperceptible increment, week by week. To make mistakes and pay the price of days of illness and, next week, try something new and lose more days and try again, each time one step closer. To watch her son suffer, watch him make progress, so much progress, but still so slow, so far to go.

To follow the rules, all the times ignoring the rules. To answer the questions but not allow them to strip her bare. To hear conflicting advice and know when to listen and when to ignore. To be full of needs, but not to be needy. To ask for help, yet go home and cope on their own. To do all this and not be swallowed up by it.

To get on with life. To love her son. To find the energy, somehow, to love her other three children. To be tired but not to lose her temper. To lose her temper, ask forgiveness, and not wallow but go on. To turn from tears to laughter, to learn the art of turning from tears to laughter. To be worn out, to be worn down, but to go on.

She has always been a rule-follower. She feels secure when she obeys. She needs to get it right, to get everything right. She needs to please. She is learning that this is not possible, that she can't do everything they say. That she can't do everything. That sometimes - often! - she won't know the best thing to do. That all she can do is what is best for her son, for her family, and love, and serve, and try, and love. She is learning that there is only One she lives to please, and she is already whole and loved in him.

She doesn't have the strength for this, but she knows Someone who does.


I wrote this in response to Meredith's writing challenge. 

God’s gifts in suffering (3) suffering tests and refines our faith

In this [living hope] you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. These have come so that your faith--of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire--may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory and honour when Jesus Christ is revealed. (1 Peter 1:6-7)

I’m no Job. The words I used to sing so blithely, with such theoretical appreciation of their beauty, such bland conviction that I’d sing them whatever came – “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21)1 – don’t, apparently, spring to my lips when suffering comes. My lips are sealed, silent.

And that’s the first thing suffering teaches me about myself: my faith is weaker than I knew. I am riddled with doubt. I am shot through with unbelief. My trust in God is fragile.

When I was young, I thought of myself as strong. I would never lose my faith! I would never stumble! My obedience was sure, my faith certain. Life, at times, has felt like a successive stripping away of self-delusion. Tempt me, and I am prone to habitual sin. Test me, and I am prone to anger. Try me, and I am prone to unbelief.

Suffering brings me low, which is exactly where I need to be:

The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. (Psalm 51:17)

Suffering undoes me. It unravels the pride and self-reliance that were woven together with my faith. What’s left is alarmingly slender, so it’s just as well that it’s God, not me, who holds me here. Faith hangs by a thread; yet it holds, tested and true, stronger than spider silk, for the One to whom it clings is faithful. When I am weak, God proves to be strong; and, seeing this, my faith grows stronger.

Suffering refines my faith. It becomes more resilient, less dependent on circumstances. I come one step closer to believing in God as he really is, not as I want him to be. I long for heaven, and the ties that bind me to this earth are loosened.

It’s true: suffering both tests and refines my faith. I’ll write more about the second of these in the weeks to come.


1. The song being Matt Redman’s Blessed be the name of the Lord.

God’s gifts in suffering (2) suffering reminds us that we are part of this fallen world

flickr: ulisse albiati

For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. (Rom 8:22-23)

Deep down, in some hidden part of me, I think I’m exempt. I’m convinced that life isn’t meant to be this hard. That God owes me healing. That he owes my son relief. That the fact that I pray, “Heal my son!”, and he wakes up sick, calls God’s goodness into question.

I am astonished! dismayed! horrified! that God hasn’t stepped in and taken this away.

It shows how little I believed God when he told me suffering would come (1 Pet 4:12-13). That this life would sometimes feel long and weary (Eccles 1:1-11 cf. Gal 6:9; 2 Thess 3:13; Heb 12:3, 5). That those who follow God will get sick and not always be healed and will one day die (Acts 9:37; 2 Cor 12:7-10; Phil 2:26-27; 2 Tim 4:20).

That suffering actually hurts (Heb 12:11). That life in this fallen world will make us groan and sigh and weep (Ps 6:6-7, 90:9; 2 Cor 5:2-4). That the pattern of the Christian life is suffering then glory (Rom 8:18; 1 Pet 5:1). I believed all this in theory, but suffering rubs my face in the truth.

It also shows how myopic my vision is, how loveless my perspective, how self-absorbed my heart. I know, at some theoretical level, that people are suffering agonisingly across the world. I’ve watched the news. I’ve read the stories. Seemingly, other people’s suffering fits with my faith just fine.

But when suffering touches me and mine, it’s a different story. Suffering is a blunt instrument battering faith on the head. My faith reels. And the suffering of others begin to sweep in on me, to mean something to me.

We are part of this fallen, frightening world (Rom 8:18-25). We belong to those around us. When I suffer, it drives me to feel this, to pray with tears, to love. I realise I’m part of this place, and this is good.

It’s good that Christians aren’t exempt from the suffering of those around us. It’s good that we share it. Otherwise, how can we reach out to those around us? How can I weep with those who weep, unless I know what it is to weep (Rom 12:15)? How can I help the weak, unless I know myself to be weak?


This post first appeared at The Briefing

God's gifts in suffering (1) Introduction

flickr: Sadness by SashaW

Suffering. You don't know it till it's grabbed you by the neck and held you down for weeks, months, even years.

It drives out every subterfuge and scours out every illusion. It chases you into every corner and steals every illusion of control. It empties you of every vanity and robs you of every trace of self-reliance.

If you're stubborn like me, this takes some time. Your brain chases its tail, trying to invent reasons, explanations, answers. Your faith wilts and staggers. You doubt, question, beg. You cling to your strength. You don't quite let yourself cry. You say, "Help me, God", but what you mean is "Do what I want. Get rid of this! Now!". And when he doesn't, doubt sweeps in, dark and hovering.

Then the day comes when you wake up and know you can't do it any more. There are no excuses left. There are no explanations. There are no illusions. There's just you and God and sorrow.

I wake at 5 o'clock. For the first time in months, I weep until my eyes are puffy and red. There have been tears before, but not like this. I whimper into the dark, "I can't do this any more. I just can't do this!" All of me has been reduced, like stock in a pan, to a single cry.

And in that moment, at the bottom of the well, I begin to feel it: solid ground.

In the weeks ahead, in one sense, nothing changes. My son, after three years of increasing illness, is still sick. He wakes, every day, to pain. We find out that he has a chronic condition, and there's some clarity and a sense of purpose. There's also ongoing grief.

In another sense, everything changes. God's goodness is no longer a theory I struggle to believe, an equation that doesn't quite add up, a sentence I can't parse. Instead, it becomes real, tangible, precious. He is there, so close I swear I could reach out and touch him. Something in me lightens and lifts its face to his light.

I look back over the long months and begin to see how this has changed me. All of the Bible's words about suffering, that for so long sounded like ill-tuned bells in my ears, heard with gritted teeth and small appreciation, suddenly ring with a true chime, and I wonder that I was deaf to them before.

Today's post is the first in a series. I want to share the ways God is using suffering to transform me. I want to take his promises and clothe them in flesh. I want to talk about truths I couldn't have talked about a year ago, truths that only now speak to me. This is my testimony, my act of thanksgiving. For God is good, even and especially when we suffer, even when we can't see it.

with the Lord forever on the other side of cancer

My friend Bronwyn Chin died last Sunday. It was Easter Day, the day we celebrate Jesus' resurrection from the dead, which seemed so fitting! For Bronwyn was always full of joy in her Saviour, and this was the day she joined him in life on the other side of death.

I only met Bronwyn last year, when I was blessed to be in a prayer group with her at a weekend conference. She was alarmingly skinny, with what she called "rock chic" hair; but she was still full of enthusiasm and laughter! We prayed for her neighbours, whom she invited over regularly so she could talk with them about Jesus. I was inspired by how she served God with all her small reserves of energy.

The day I heard the news I discovered that jogging when you're crying isn't easy. I couldn't stop thinking about and praying through tears for her husband Richard and their four children. My heart is heavy for them because I know that grief is hard. That aching absence always feels so final, even when you know it's not.

Today I'm re-reading a wonderful article Bronwyn wrote last year. It's called Thank God for the gift of cancer. In it she writes,

So I thank God for this gift of cancer because he is good and he is using it for his purposes. The plans of the Lord are perfect even if I don’t know the reasons for everything. All I know is that soon I will be with the Lord forever because Jesus alone has saved me through his death and resurrection.

I hope to see you all there!

 I'd love to encourage you to read the rest here.