Category Archives: cancer

when obedience comes back around …

I remember the night I first penned those beginning words to Beyond Cancer’s Scars with the nudge of the Holy Spirit alongside:

“Out of your poverty, Elaine, surrender your pen.”

It was a hard obedience. At that point in my journey, I was exhausted, worn out and hammered down by the emotional and physical requirements of my cancer season. Questions multiplied in my mind that night, doubts as well. What would become of this obedience?

In the end, words came from that obedience, nearly 60,000 of them. One thought after another, day after day of concentrated writing until forty days culminated into one binding—an inside look at one survivor’s very personal surrender. My surrender.

And so it was. So it is. Beyond Cancer’s Scars.

Tonight I look again at that old obedience. I hold the sum total of those thoughts tenderly in my hands, lift them up to the Father, and ask him a few questions not unlike the ones I asked him on that June night back in 2011. In swift measure, I sense his response. Oddly enough, it mirrors an old refrain.

“Out of your poverty, Elaine, surrender your pen.”

This is the work of our hands, the Father’s and mine. Collectively, we labored alongside one another in this hard obedience, and the end result—these words of 60,000—mean more to me than most any of the other ones I’ve said and written these past forty-seven years. These words were a gift to me; in turn, they became a gift for others, at least that’s been my hope.

But these words aren’t mine to keep; they are meant for release. To, once again, be surrendered as an offering to the Father who first enabled them … who lives in each one of them. Only he knows where to take them and how he wants to use them.

What will become of this obedience?

I haven’t a clue. But I will walk it through, just like I did back in 2011. I surrender these words all over again, believing in their eternal value. This is the best I can do … the most I can give. And therein is a moment of perfect peace for this journey I am traveling.

I pray the same for you, friends. Rest tenderly in the peace of Jesus Christ tonight, and may Sabbath arrive to your soul as a gentle grace from heaven.

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A Survivor Lives Here

“Once more a remnant of the house of Judah will take root below and bear fruit above. For out of Jerusalem will come a remnant, and out of Mount Zion a band of survivors.” (2 Kings 19:30-31)

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I attached the purple ribbon to my mailbox as a reminder to myself:

A survivor lives here.

It feels slightly self-indulgent, putting the focus on me. A season ago, I displayed these ribbons in honor of loved ones who journeyed the cancer road, but this year I boldly make this declaration on my behalf because I’m taking my own advice … practicing what I so bravely proclaim.

Being a survivor isn’t about defeating the disease. Being a survivor is about defeating the silence that often attaches itself to the disease.

For me, this has become a rallying cry of sorts. I emphasized it again yesterday during the morning messages at Saint Luke’s annual Relay for Life service. It’s one of the main reasons I agreed to speak. You see, there’s a silence that has been settling in on my spirit for the past several months.

Sometimes, silence is a good thing, a golden kind of thing. I remember my 9th grade English teacher writing in my yearbook, “If silence is golden, Elaine, you can forget it!” I also remember my daddy telling me, “Elaine, not every thought you’re thinking needs to be verbalized.” I knew what they meant. In hindsight, I celebrate their words, because I fully understand the intent behind them. They represent life—a living, breathing witness of a young girl who wasn’t afraid to be heard and to err on the side of verbal expression. It’s been a delicate dance these past forty-seven years, learning when to speak and when to keep silent.

But what about those times when silence isn’t golden, when words should be spoken but, instead, remain buried, hidden beneath layers of self-doubt? Prolonged silence can become a breeding ground for destructive behaviors rather than a resting place for instructive growth. I recognize these dangers, and so I made a choice to use my words on Sunday morning and on this Monday morning. Not just any words, but words that have been bathed in grace and baptized in prayers for God to use them, once more, to move the kingdom forward. To move my heart forward.

Maybe today you’re stuck in your silence. A soul-eating something has taken its toll on your witness. Your voice no longer boasts the confidence of your sacred endowment. No purple bows tied to the mailbox. No holy proclamations tied to your lips. Instead, drop-dead silence. You’re at a loss for words, and your survivorship seems in question.

I hear you. Your silence couldn’t be clearer.

Today is the day to start talking again, start putting words to your struggle, thereby putting words to your faith. Pick up the phone, pick up the pen, pick up a friend, and pick up a bow. Tie it on the mailbox, tie it on your computer, tie it on your lips, or tie it on your heart. Let the whole world know that …

A survivor lives here.

A soul-survivor. A woman, a man living each day with the Soul-Creator, Soul-Stirrer, Soul-Lover, Soul-Keeper … Jesus Christ.

“Once more a remnant of the house of Judah will take root below and bear fruit above.”

Today might be the beginning of your once more. Break the silence within and watch your roots grow deeper into the soil of God’s kingdom garden. Our Father will not waste your witness. Our Father intends to cultivate it for his glory and his renown. Your survivorship is not in question. Your survivorship remains safe and is certain in his hands.

Keep to it, soul-survivors. Our best days are in front of us. As always …

Peace for the journey,

Learning to Pray Again

I remember how strange it seemed. Foreign to me. Familiar to others.

Prostrate prayers before the Lord, face-down on my red quilt, pointed eastward toward Jerusalem. It was her challenge to us following the Raleigh Living Proof Live event I’d attended. It soon became my default.

At first it was awkward, almost ridiculous at times. I felt odd, uncomfortable, and out of place. Was I doing it right? Where should I put my arms? How should I begin the conversation with God? But I kept to it, this horizontal approach to Jesus. Days turned into weeks, and weeks collected as months. With little fanfare, face-down praying slipped into my daily routine as habit.

And I loved my prayer time with Jesus.

But then one September morning in 2010 I stopped. Cancer interrupted my routine, and out of necessity, I traded in my face-down prayers for upright ones. I folded my red quilt, stored it neatly in the blanket basket, and promised God I’d get back to it as soon as I could. As soon as the scars healed. As soon as my knees gave me permission to bend without pain.

It’s been three years now since I’ve hit the floor in reverence. And while my scars have mostly healed and my pain has lessened, the quilt (for the most part) remains folded, used on occasion for warmth by other family members.

And I’ve suffered in my prayer time with Jesus.

What I used to love, I no longer craved. What I used to practice, I no longer pursued. What I used to know, I no longer remembered.

Until last week.

While sitting around the table with new friends discussing Bill Hybel’s book on prayer, I remembered what I used to love, what I used to practice, what I used to know. Last week, I recalled my red quilt, the intimacy of face-down prayers shared with the Father, and, with a contrite heart, I remembered my promise to him … to get back to it as soon as I could.

As soon as I could came and went a couple of years ago. What once felt so impossible—this stretching out of flesh before the Father—was made possible again by his healing hands. Sadly, I let it slip by without notice. A habit not pursued is easily forgotten, replaced by what’s reasonable, what’s comfortable. All too often, what’s reasonable and comfortable is a formula for complacency – a last-luster, dulled approach to connecting with life … to connecting with Jesus.

Not wanting anything dull and lack-luster as it pertains to my life with Jesus, I went in search of the red quilt last week. I found God’s East, and I laid down toward it. Scars to the ground, stretched out and head bowed low before the King. Not ridiculous this time around; instead, more readily embraced. Old habits remembered (especially the ones that are sweet) are ones willingly reinstated.

And, once again, I loved my prayer time with Jesus. This is how I will move forward in my conversations with him. This is where I will meet him in the mornings. Not out of obligation, but rather out of privilege.

I am able, so I will. Scars and all. Stretched out and stretched thin. Face to the floor. Heart to the heavens. This is, indeed, sweetness to my soul.

Peace for the journey,

What about you, friend? Do you love your prayer times with Jesus? What sweet habit of prayer have you learned? I’d love to hear more.

Running my race . . .

 

Safe . . . protected under the shelter of God’s wings.

Those were the phrases that surfaced in my mind and the feelings that settled deeply within my soul when I awoke at my parents’ home yesterday morning – a Sabbath morning. Certainly the fact that I was with them and under their watchful care had something to do with the peace that I felt. Even more so, knowing that I was under God’s watchful care and firmly attached to his will and his strength, well this was a great grace for me—to know that I know that I know that all is well with my soul and that I could firmly and forcefully approach the day with certain confidence.

And so we went, Jesus and me together, sowing kingdom seed during the three morning services at Garner UMC. This is a big week for the folks in Garner. Their annual Relay for Life event will take place on Friday night at Lake Benson Park. The community will come out in force, none more so than the community that gathers each Sunday at Garner UMC. Their hearts are passionate about Relay, about this race for life. In a small way, my preaching was to be a rallying cry of sorts—a central meeting point for the saints to begin their intentional steps of pilgrimage toward Friday night’s festivities.

By the time the noon hour rolled around, I had a strong feeling that we had done what we came to do . . . God and me. His call to me to go and preach grace and my obedience therein—a corporate venture toward kingdom multiplication. A call not to solely reflect on my cancer survivorship but, more importantly, to address the issue of my soul survivorship. In doing so, in talking about what it means to survive this life with Jesus as my compass, everyone who made it out to Garner UMC yesterday morning was able to find their place and mark their paces in the survivor’s lap of the most important relay they will ever run—a relay for everlasting life with their everlasting King.

Safe . . . protected under the shelter of God’s wings. There we stood yesterday morning, linking arms for the kingdom cause, and I am undone with the memory of it all, unable to fully reflect in a few words what it meant to me. What it meant to my family—daughter, sons, husband, and father on the front pew, mother in the choir loft. What it meant to the congregants. I just know that it meant something special for all of us, and on this Monday morning, I am exceedingly grateful for yet another undeserved blessing from my Father’s heart and for the privilege of joining him on the front lines of grace.

I leave you with a few words my father wrote to me last evening; forgive me if they seem self-indulgent. Perhaps I’m not writing them for you. Perhaps more so, for my children and for their children for a season yet to come so that they, too, can hold this memory as part of their spiritual heritage and remember a day when Faith Elaine took to the pulpit and rallied the troops in the name of soul-survivorship and exclusively for the name and renown of Jesus Christ her Lord.

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It isn’t very often that a preacher gets to sit at the feet of another preacher; especially when that preacher is your daughter. I sat on the front pew this morning—watching, listening, and feeling some very deep and heart-warming ‘moments’, as I heard Elaine preach. Tonight, to reflect or write on what I experienced would be fruitless—some things are too deep, too precious, and too sacred. Silence is often the best response to the ‘deepest of things’. One of these days I might be able to, but not tonight. So, let me offer a prayer instead—a prayer that I keep nearby and use it often. While the author is unknown, it comes out of the 17th Century, entitled, A Nun’s Prayer.

“Lord, thou knowest better than I know myself that I am growing old and will someday be old. Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion. Release me from craving to straighten out everybody’s affairs. Make me thoughtful but not moody; helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all, but thou knowest Lord that I want a few friends at the end.

“Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details; give me wings to get to the point. Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing, and love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by. I dare not ask for grace enough to enjoy the tales of others’ pains, but help me to endure them with patience.

“I dare not ask for improved memory, but for a growing humility and lessening cocksureness when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others. Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.

“Keep me reasonably sweet; I do not want to be a Saint—some of them are so hard to live with—but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of the devil. Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places, and talents in unexpected people. And, give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so. Amen.”

Goodnight, Elaine, sleep well, and when the morning greets you with the rising sun, you will hear music, the kind of music we all heard this morning. Keep singing that Song! 

Dad 

 

When Suffering Counts for the Kingdom

It’s been a long time since I’ve raised a toast to my cancer season and uttered the words, “Bless you, Cancer.” I’m glad I haven’t forgotten how to do so. There’s been a lengthy span of less thankfulness and more confusion in recent days. Not so this past weekend. On Sunday, I was able to whisper my blessing while sitting in the chapel at Rogers & Breece Funeral Home.

Vic passed away. He was my cancer buddy, sitting next to me during my first round of chemotherapy and many times following. He, too, was a warrior, fighting valiantly to lengthen his earthly tenure. God knew I needed him that first day; God also knew that he would need me in the days to come. Not just me, but my husband as well – the preacher man and friend who also attended Vic’s funeral but who would find his place behind the pulpit, not beside me in a pew. Billy was the chosen man to eulogize the life and witness of our friend, Vic, a role he never expected to play yet one he graciously accepted.

If cancer had never been my portion, then I am not certain who would have been chosen to tenderly and kindly lead Vic’s family and friends along this tremendous road of grief. Without our cancer connection, I don’t know who would have taken the time to pray with Vic . . . who would have made for him the connection between the earthly and the eternal. Sure, God can do it all on his own, but because of his tender mercy and loving trust, he willingly allows us the opportunity of kingdom influence. I feel so honored to be trusted with so much; I know my husband feels the same. And here is what I want you to know:

God is still in the business of making your suffering season count. Some days it feels rather weighty, this carrying of past or maybe current grief. Sometimes it feels forgotten, influence hidden away in the crevices of lessons learned in history. Sometimes in our movement away from personal pain our hearts can grow bitter about it all, wondering about the reasons we were allowed its portion in the first place. But every now and again, suffering makes sense. Suffering has a reason. Suffering (on the backside) feels suited to our flesh, and we are able to bless it rather than curse it.

I am grateful for those times when I understand and fully realize that the pain I’ve endured is a pain that has extended the borders of God’s kingdom. That the stretch of my flesh has also stretched his to reach long and wide and high and deep and wrap up in love the lost sheep of his earthly pasture. That when I reach outward to others through my pain, God reaches downward to others through his love, and therein the sky splits revealing the bright light of heaven that guides us safely home.

Maybe today you’re wondering if your pain matters . . . if, in fact, there is an eternal component to it all. That if somewhere down the road or somewhere right around the corner it might matter for more than just the personal perspective it’s wrought in you. That maybe God won’t leave it as part of your history but, instead, reveal it as part of his kingdom ministry. If that is where you’re at today, then here is what I want you to know:

God is still in the business of making your suffering season count. Nothing is wasted in the economy of God. He’ll keep using your pain, friend, because he understands the road of suffering and the great price you’ve paid to walk it through faithfully. He now intends to bless it most fruitfully—to sow and grow something in others with the seeds of your surrender. You may not see it now, but you can trust that God has seen it all.

And every now and again, you’ll catch a glimpse of the glory. Hang on for the glimpses. As they arrive, your heart will be strengthened for the steps ahead. As always . . .

Peace for the journey,

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