Category Archives: cancer volume 4

“Beyond Cancer’s Scars” . . . the first chapter and what others are saying

Some of you still might be wondering if Beyond Cancer’s Scars is a book for you. Here are a few thoughts from readers who’ve read the book:

“I was diagnosed with stage one breast cancer in April 2009. . . . Since that time I have felt most all of the emotions you wrote about in your book. The final battle has been with feeling that my life is over and I am just waiting to die. Your book has helped me to see beyond cancer and to move forward. . . . As you said in your book, I can now say with enthusiasm, ‘Cancer has given me far more than it has taken from me.’ I stood up during a time of praise at Sunday morning worship to praise and thank God for the healing He is doing in my life and to thank Him for cancer. Thank you for sharing your emotions during your desert experience because it has given me the Hope I needed.” –“S” from NC

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“I am only on page 37, and I ordered 2 more books to share. . . . I realized when I read on page 21 that it is so true that people ‘need a faith-based resource to serve as a companion for their (cancer) journey.’ I have not had cancer but realize ‘everybody has a story’ (like the title of your one chapter). I could feel some of your pain about your cancer experience. On the other side of the coin, I could feel the hope that you offer in all situations because of your stories of faith.

Thank you for writing this book! I believe it has helped many people already and will continue to help others.” –“C” from NC

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“Elaine Olsen has written a book that will touch your heart, give you hope, and point you in the right direction for dealing with the ‘something’ in your life. From a soul attuned to the path of victory for life’s journey, her words bring clear understanding to the phrase – God is faithful. Divided into 40 short devotionals, this book reads like an encouraging letter from a close friend, that will be reread many times to glean another morsel of much needed truth.

Elaine’s take on Paul’s admonition to ‘live on’ will inspire you to move forward in your journey – whether it includes cancer or’ something’ else. The stories of her daughter’s bike ride and the family’s trip to the zoo will bring tears to your eyes and cause your heart to swell with anticipation of something greater.

 Everyone needs to read this book. I can guarantee no one will be disappointed.” –Karen from GA

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“It won’t take you long to recognize yourself on these pages, whether you’ve ever had cancer or not. I haven’t, and by the end of page 2, I already knew there were many lessons here for me.

These words are about so much more than cancer, although she shares both her struggles and rough times so honestly, it will be a treasure for cancer patients and their families. This book, with questions at the end of each chapter, and also a facilitator format, is ideal for churches to offer in a group or small group setting.

The secrets she shares here are for every one of us. They are principles for living, God’s way. There isn’t anyone who travels this journey of life without ‘something’, be it cancer, or some other form of suffering. But as Elaine so clearly says, all of our ‘somethings’ matter to God, are known to Him, and will be transformed in our lives for good, because of His grace. Get the book!” –Sonja from TX

Still not convinced? Then, perhaps, reading the Prologue and first chapter of Beyond Cancer’s Scars might help you to decide. Click on the following link: Beyond Cancers’ Scars_Chapter 1

To view the book trailer and/or to order your copy, click here.

Have a great weekend!

I’d love to hear from you . . . why might you need a book like this?

 

the moment the walls talked . . .

 

I’m not a fan of coming here . . . too many memories and a pocketful of worries.

It’s not the people inside; they represent some of the best of the best. Dr. Habal and his surgical, oncology team are uniquely gifted in doing what they do. With God’s help, they preserved my life, saved it for a season longer, and I am exceedingly grateful. But follow-up visits are never easy. Instead, they serve as invitations for me to remember the struggle. To enter, once again, that familiar memory from two years ago when I first heard those words, “Mrs. Olsen, the results of your biopsy indicate the presence of cancer . . . invasive ductal carcinoma.”

Two years later, my memory serves me correctly. One doesn’t forget a moment like that one. Some moments are meant to be remembered. They remind me of where I’ve been and how very far I’ve come.

When my name was called, I left Billy and the kids in the waiting room and traveled down that familiar hallway to that familiar examination room. Unlike two years ago, today I would go it alone; today’s visit was routine, less critical, and less worrisome. The room’s sterility was only outdone by its silence—a formidable combination for a mind content on reeling with the potentialities of possible outcomes:

What will he say to me when he comes in? What will he do to me? What will be the results? How can this be right? Where did things go wrong? Where’s my peace? Where’s the doctor? When will it be my turn?

These were my ruminations two years ago. Today? Well, instead of being fraught with worry and questions, I leaned my head back against the wall and rested my eyes. It had taken us two hours to arrive at our destination, and I was tired. I quieted my heart in the wait and listened to the sounds around me. Soft footsteps and even softer murmurings could be heard through the solid, oak door.

Little time had passed before I heard the doctor’s footsteps coming toward me. Instead of stopping at my door, he stopped at room next to mine and announced his arrival with a gentle rap and an even gentler greeting as he entered the room.

“Good morning, Patty. How are you doing today?”

Yes, Dr. Habal was on the move, and I would have to wait a bit longer. Did he say Patty? Maybe it was Kathy? In hindsight, I don’t remember. What I do remember is what happened next, about two minutes after Dr. Habal’s arrival there.

A guttural, turn-your-stomach scream called out from the room next door, interrupting the quietness and forcing my notice. My family tells me it could be heard in the waiting room as well. Some walls aren’t thick enough to insulate the suffering cry. Some walls, instead, herald its arrival, allowing everyone within earshot permission to listen in on private pain . . . her pain, the woman next door who had just received, perhaps, the worst news of her life.

Oh, I didn’t hear those words coming through the walls; I didn’t need to. Some moments write a witness all their own, requiring little explanation. Some moments are just that hard, hurtful, and seemingly hopeless. Some moments are meant to be remembered. This, undoubtedly, was one of hers, thereby becoming one of mine.

I wanted to bolt. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to leave the pain. Instead, I shed some tears on her behalf. Moistness collected in the corners of my eyes and then dampened my cheeks, falling gently into my lap. I marked the moment in solitude and stood in solidarity with my sister on the other side of that wall, knowing something of what she felt and wishing I could break through the scene to give her some truth.

All is not lost in the night, friend. Dawn will break through, and that which now feels like death can feel like life again. Like hope. Like spring’s resurrection after winter’s solemn grip. Hang on, sister-warrior. Yes, the fight has only begun, but the fight will not last forever. There’s more to the story. Hang on and hold fast . . . the best is yet to be.

I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget this moment . . . her moment. It belongs to me now. Some moments in our lives are meant to be remembered. Why? Because they remind us of where we’ve been and how very far we’ve come.

Two thousand years ago, another guttural, turn-your-stomach cry issued forth loudly from the cross, allowing everyone within earshot permission to enter into the Savior’s, suffering story. Two thousand years later, my memory serves me correctly, well-preserved for me in the context of Scripture:

“From the sixth hour until the ninth hour darkness came over all the land. About the ninth hour Jesus cried out in a loud voice, ‘Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?’—which means, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’” —Matthew 27:45-46

Jesus, too, felt forsaken, forgotten, and all alone to grieve the realities of his present suffering. His pain was undeniable; his cry, soul-shattering. The worst news of his earthly life became the best news of ours. All was not lost in the night. Dawn broke through, and that which was death became life again. Became hope. Became spring’s resurrection after winter’s solemn grip. Jesus Christ held on for a strong finish, fought hard for his Father’s finish, knowing that there was more to the story, his story, our stories. The best had not already been. The best was yet to be. And those who stood by as witnesses to that moment never forgot it. It marked them forever; in doing so, it marks me forever, maybe even you.

Some moments in our lives are meant to be remembered, even the painful ones, especially them. They remind us of where we’ve been; they stand as a memorial to how very far we’ve come, and, most importantly, they tell us the story of where we’re headed.

My life has been marked by pain; my life is not defined by it, but by God’s grace, my life has been changed because of it. I cannot undo personal suffering, nor can I remove you from yours. I can only point you to the One whose story, whose truth, whose witness, and whose resurrection can move you forward to victory.

All is not lost in the night, friend. Dawn will break through, and that which now feels like death can feel like life again. Like hope. Like spring’s resurrection after winter’s solemn grip. Hang on, sister, brother-warrior. Yes, the fight has only begun, but the fight will not last forever. There’s more to the story. Hang on and hold fast . . . the best is yet to be.

With Jesus Christ at the lead, the best is always yet to be.

Peace for the journey,

What suffering moment from your past serves as a lasting witness to the faithfulness of our God and to his Son’s triumph over the grave? What triumph trumps the pain and lingers as a memorial to the hard-fought battle you’ve waged (perhaps continue to wage) to the glory and renown of our Lord? I’d love to hear your story.

coastal daybreak . . .

There are many moving parts to my story. They change on a regular basis, moving on to the stage of my life without warning and, just as quickly, making their exit. I cannot predict the flow. I only know to expect it—an ever-shifting current of ins and outs, ups and downs, heart-highs and heart-lows.

This is survival.

It’s not easily defined and even harder to defend. Each day is a fight—a deliberate choice to enter the fray, to live forward and to do so in the shadow and strong witness of Calvary. Because Jesus survived the cross I, too, can survive mine. He is the standard-bearer for survivorship, conquering the grave and stepping forth into resurrected light. I want to step accordingly, to greet each new morning with the expectation that what has not yet been wrought in me will be cultivated in me by the hands and willing grace of God.

As the sun rises, so does my hope. Daybreak heralds the arrival of possibility . . . opportunity. A new day for a fresh work of God, by him and for him. There’s so much yet to learn, so much yet to become. I am limited in my abilities, worn and torn by the struggle of my flesh. I am renewed by the truth that spirit trumps flesh, that eternal wins out over temporal, and that the pulse currently within me caters to them both—my now and my then.

Who, but our God, could fashion such a form to house both the seen and unseen seeds of forever? What mystery exists within us! The moving parts of our stories make for interesting dialogue, and for as long as our earthly tenures continue, we should our conversations with the Father. This is how we get to know him. This is how we move closer to holiness. When we tether our words to him, he tethers his Word to us.

This is survival. Real survival. This is how we rise above the madness and make sense of the many moving parts of our stories. This is how we live forward. We keep talking to God. In doing so, we acknowledge the Holy, and we open up our hearts to receive fresh words of consecration that, not only validate our survivorship, but also move us into a place of effective, kingdom ministry.

Two years ago, I couldn’t have predicted the parts of my story that have now moved on to the stage of my today. It would have felt too weighty back then; it barely feels a reasonable load right now. Still and yet, this is my story to receive and then to live. No one else gets to move the puzzle pieces. Just God and, then, just me. It scares me sometimes—this responsibility called my life. But what scares the most is not ever really living it, not daily making the most of it.

And so, this morning, to honor the moving parts of my story that belong to my Father and, then, to me, I said, “Yes!” to the morning’s light and joined Ben Ball on his radio talk-show, Coastal Daybreak. I trembled with the responsibility, and then I let it go . . . gave it to God, and said “So be it. Do with it what you will.”

 

(to listen to my radio interview with Ben, click on the following link: Elaine Olsen on Coastal Daybreak)

 

I don’t imagine I have a future in talk-radio, but I do imagine that God could take something as fluid as my story and give it a voice to further his kingdom purposes. In my weakness, he is elevated. In my brokenness, he is seen. In my survivorship, he is celebrated. And with my story, he is remembered.

When Christ is elevated, seen, celebrated, and remembered because of the moving parts of our stories, then we live the kingdom forward. We move it forward as well. What could be more honorable than this? What better way to finish the walk in front of us?

Keep moving, friends, and leave a kingdom trail behind you as you go. It’s the best that any of us can do.

Peace for the journey,

 

PS: The winners of Lisa Shaw’s book/CD and Cindy’s cards is Cheryl! I’ll be in touch, friend.

Lessons from the Lunchroom {the next 24 hours}

It’s Sunday evening. A table usually reserved for meal times has, instead, become a makeshift teacher’s desk. Lesson plans strewn about, books, DVD’s, grade books, red pens, and unsharpened pencils litter the oak top, alongside my tiredness. I put my head down, realizing again, the enormity of the task in front of me. I haven’t graded papers over the weekend, haven’t prepared for the week ahead.

Week four, our 16th day of homeschooling. Yes, that’s where we are. Marking off days on the school calendar, fully entrenched in a new routine that feels less new now, more normal. I sigh, and then I remember . . . a lesson I learned not long ago. A life-learning that came to me under the teacher named Cancer. That lesson?

The capacity and the great willingness to live within the context of a twenty-four hour time frame. To not look beyond today, realizing that today is all I’ve been given. Today holds enough worry of its own. No need to borrow beyond this day’s allowance. Should tomorrow arrive for me, I’ll have enough time and enough determination to deal with it then. But as for today, I’ll keep my attention and focus on the task at hand, give myself permission to rest here, and establish the boundaries that prevent me from going further.

It’s a good way to live. I’ve not always applied this lesson to my life. I’m not sure I really learned it in my younger years. Certainly, I heard it . . . from the pulpit, from my parents, in my readings and with my studying. But application of truth is sometimes best learned firsthand, away from prescriptive learning while entrenched in the labors of practical living—applied living, where the tenets of our faith are hammered out on the pavement of everyday life.

The capacity and great willingness to live within the context of a twenty-four hour time frame doesn’t become our default until we’re required to go there, to live there for a season. A time when twenty-four hours is enough, when living through those next twenty-four hours is the gift. Sometimes we live ahead of the gift. We strive to hold more than our daily allowance, wanting to have it all figured out, leaving little wiggle room for the contingencies that frequently interrupt our best laid plans.

Best laid plans are rarely lived plans. Certainly, a well thought-out, established plan is a framework for success, allowing us some measure of control over the outcome. But at the end of the day, even in the middle of our day, and occasionally in those beginning moments of our day, there comes a scenario we didn’t consider during our Sunday evening planning sessions. Sometimes, life takes a turn we didn’t anticipate while charting out our weekly agendas, and it’s probably a really good thing we weren’t forewarned about its arrival.

Can you imagine what our planners might look like had we known that “it” was coming (whatever that “it” is for you)? Sweet mercy, there wouldn’t be enough white-out to fix the mess! When life gets derailed, it’s better to keep the pencil and the eraser handy, rather than the pen. Sometimes, perhaps, throwing them both aside is the best course of action . . . just let it happen, let life come, without trying to control it all on the front side of its advent.

This is, perhaps, the grace in it all—the joy of finally being able to let go of all the striving, to release the expectations of daily life, and to live fully in the realization that these next twenty-four hours are all that our precious lives were meant to handle. This doesn’t mean that we don’t look forward to tomorrow, that we don’t plan a little, control a little, and pray a ton. It simply and profoundly means that we save tomorrow’s striving until tomorrow and live the gift in front of us.

And so, I lift my head from this table, and I acknowledge that I won’t be able to fully plan my week in these moments. Instead, I’ll lock into the urgent, that which is pressing, that which is called tomorrow morning. It feels good and right to downgrade my focus, to keep it small, thus freeing up some space in my heart and soul for the contingencies that might work their way into a loosely planned schedule.

The capacity and great willingness to live within the context of a twenty-four hour time frame.

Are you there yet? Are you willing? Can you whittle your plans, your thoughts, and your worries down to the next twenty-four hours? Nothing more is required of you. Why not live this freedom in this moment? Why not grant yourself permission to fully live here, to stop here, and to travel no further down the road, save for the next step in front of you?

It’s a beautiful way to live a day. It’s a trusting way to live a life.

“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” –Matthew 6:34

“Beyond Cancer’s Scars: Laying Claim to a Stronger Spirit” . . . Book Release

And so it arrives . . . this moment I’ve been anticipating for over a year now. The day when I can release to you to the words God gave to me over the course of forty days last summer. It’s my cancer story, wrapped up in words and memories that express both joy and sorrow, hope deferred and hope realized. Funny thing . . . I still feel these words. They’re still fresh, still speaking strength to my soul. I pray they’ll speak strength to your soul as well.

It seems fitting that Beyond Cancer’s Scars: Laying Claim to a Stronger Spirit releases this week. Today, August 23rd, marks the two year anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. Two years ago, I couldn’t see today—a future moment when the suffering I was about to absorb would bloom as a witness to the sustaining strength and faithfulness of God. Two years ago, all I could do was feel the pain, suffer the losses, and hold tightly to the faith that had so beautifully followed me all the days of my life.

That faith and God’s grace have carried me forward to this moment—a day when he turns the tables on my previous suffering by using it for his kingdom purposes. This is my prayer . . . that my story might serve as a soothing balm to your suffering season. That you would feel less alone in your struggle and that you, like me, would allow God to use your pain to shape the souls of the generation that sits beneath your influence.

Your story in God’s hands advances his kingdom. Write it, speak it, feel it, and, most importantly, live your story forward. The best is yet to be! With Jesus, the best is always yet to be.

Would you please help me spread the word about my book? Here are some ways you can help:

  • Share this post and the book trailer with your friends via e-mail, facebook, twitter, blog, and other social media pages.
  • Purchase a copy of the book for your pastor to serve as a resource for those in his/her congregation who are dealing with cancer.
  • Purchase a copy of the book for a family member, co-worker, neighbor, or friend who is struggling with cancer or another soul-eating “something”.
  • Consider starting a support group for cancer patients/family members/others who are suffering (a free, downloadable facilitator’s guide is available by clicking on the following link: Download Facilitator’s Guide for Beyond Cancer’s Scars).
  • Ask your local bookstores to carry my book.
  • Share my speaking information page with your church staff and others who are looking for a special event speaker.
  • Write a review of Beyond Cancer’s Scars for online retailers (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.)

To listen to a radio interview about the book, click here.

 

Ordering information:

 

This first version of Beyond Cancer’s Scars is no longer available for purchase online. The updated version, Beyond the Scars, can be found by following this link.

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