Category Archives: cancer

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,

when seasons change. . .

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.” –Eccl. 3:1

The changing seasons. A new one is arriving to replace the old.

Fall has always been my preference. Color. Coolness. Breezes and releases. The heat of summer is being swept away by the wind, and I am ready for flannel and jackets. I’m ready for the cover-up of fall. Time to wrap up, go in, let go, and go deeper with Jesus. Time to hide-away with him and to unwrap the treasures of this seasonal shift. Yes, an autumnal embrace is a good fit with my heart. It refreshes my soul.

What about you? What season cradles your steps? What season is currently challenging your heart? Fall? Winter? Spring? Summer?

A few thoughts from Beyond Cancer’s Scars: Laying Claim to a Stronger Spirit:

“I don’t know what season you’re walking through, but I do know that each one bares a worthiness all its own. As you trace the heart of King Solomon, I imagine that you, along with me, are able to find the lines of your story tangled up with each line of his. There’s hope to be found there, to our realizing that we live a seasonal faith and that, with that living, comes a time for every thing—every joy, pain, frustration, surrender, sorrow, and celebration. Nothing in our lives is exempt from the cyclical process of our winter, spring, summer, and fall. We can choose to walk through them with little or no effect to our hearts, but we cannot deny the possibility of growth extended to us because of them. Each season of our lives is rife with eternal possibilities. The soul shift happens when we bow low and lean into those possibilities.” –F. Elaine Olsen, Beyond Cancer’s Scars, pg. 137.

Maybe today, maybe sometime this weekend, you might take a look at King Solomon’s heart via his pen, found in Ecclesiastes 3? Maybe, like me, you’ll be able to pinpoint your current season to one of Solomon’s. In doing so, I pray your heart refreshed, encouraged, lifted up, and strengthened by the truth that (regardless of whatever season you’re walking through) you’re not walking it in isolation from the Almighty. God is hunkered down with you in the midst of your steps, and he sees clearly the marked path in front of you.

Trust in that abiding, friends, and stick close to the Father.

Wrap up; go in; let go; go deeper.

God has something more for you than currently meets the eye. Most certainly, that something will stretch your faith and shape your soul. Keep to it. As always . . .

Peace for the journey,

To learn more about you might receive the witness of Beyond Cancer’s Scars: Laying Claim to a Stronger Spirit, click here.  Also, for those of you who live in the Goldsboro, NC, area, Pine Forest UMC is hosting a book signing Saturday morning, October 13th, from 10:00 AM until. Feel free to contact me for additional details.

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.

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