Category Archives: cancer

choosing when to walk . . .

Rain.

I’m growing weary of it. Not of its existence; rain is needful. It cleanses the earth, grows the seed, and cools the summer scorch. No, I’m not knocking the benefits and beauty of the rain. I am, however, a bit disgruntled by its timing.

Let me explain.

I’m an evening walker. I used to walk in the mornings, started my day off fresh with a hearty three or four mile jog in the brilliance of the sun’s light. Somewhere along the way, things changed. Life changed. My jogs turned into walks, my schedule obliterated by the urgent and necessary. My schedule, these days, not so necessary, less urgent than my previous one, yet new habits have taken over where old ones once reigned. And so, I now walk in the evenings. There’s nothing profound or deep buried in this reality. It’s just how it is.

For the last several weeks, the rain has accompanied me on my walks. I may start out dry with blue skies and a smattering of gray-bottomed, cloudy pillows as my companions, but I usually return to the house with a few drops of heavenly dispensation on my clothing. In all my years of living on the East Coast, I’ve never experienced such predictability. And so tonight (with my son’s promised forecast for sunny skies and lower temps), I began my customary stroll around the neighborhood. This time I took my umbrella . . . just in case. Good thing. My “just in case” rolled in about the time my feet rounded the corner on Fordham Drive.

Buckets of rain, absorbing through my cheap umbrella, making sure I knew it meant business. I wasn’t going to escape the wetness. Instead, I was forced to endure it . . . again, all the while praying that anyone in my household might look out the blinds to notice my predicament and run to my rescue. They didn’t. Instead, they stayed dry in the comfort of our home while I willfully pushed through puddles and streams and soggy socks, all the while hating the rain and wondering why it seems to prefer my walking hour rather than the other twenty-three that fill up a day.

I know what you’re thinking. I’m thinking about it too. Why not change the time of your walk, Elaine? Why risk the rain at night, when the morning promises more dryness? Why not the certainty of the day rather than this new predictability of the evening?

Why, indeed?

I don’t have a good answer for you. I won’t even tell you that “into every life a little rain must fall.” You get it. You know about the rainy season—those times when we cannot choose the climate surrounding our hearts and we must press through the rain because there’s no other option. That’s not what I’m talking about here. What I am wondering about are those times when you and I have a choice . . . to walk in the rain or to walk in the sunshine. What about those times in our lives when we stubbornly choose the rain over the sunshine? When we refuse a change of habit and heart and cling tightly to our way over a better way? Why walk with the clouds when the sun is available?

I’ve had a lot of rainy days as of late; I cannot predict all of the clouds that will move in and out of my life, nor the precipitation they’ll bring with them. I can, however, predict a few of them—those evening showers. Accordingly, I can make a choice to avoid them . . . to move my walking to daytime hours. In doing so, I’ll avoid some wetness, some heartache as well.

I don’t always have to get wet. You don’t either. Sometimes we get to choose when we walk. Sometimes we have an option . . .

The sunshine or the rain.

Seems to me a better choice to enjoy the sun while it is shining brightly overhead rather than to be caught in the rain with regret. And therein lies a thought or two worth considering. As always . . .

Peace for the journey,

My friend, Melanie Dorsey, has also written about “choosing” today. Join her in worship by clicking here.

a secret worth sharing…

May I tell you a secret? For those of you who know me personally and do life with me on a regular basis, it won’t be fresh revelation. But for others—those of you who only know me as the woman who writes these words in this public place—my disclosure might come as a surprise. Are you ready?

 

I’m here today, writing these words, out of obligation—an allegiance to a gift that once flowed so naturally through my heart and my pen.

 

Obediently, I take to the task, not because of some burning desire to engage with my words, but because I owe it to the woman I once was—a woman who easily and willingly penned the thoughts of her heart. That ability was shattered by the rigors of cancer treatments. I want it back. Life would be so much easier (or so it seems) if desire was here to fuel my “want to.”

 

Obligation—the driving force behind most of my decisions these days. Obligation, not emotions, keeps me connected to my world . . . to people, to work, to faith, to God. I do what I must do—what I know is the right thing to do—in order to keep moving forward, believing that somewhere down the road my emotions will kick in and supplement obligation with a healthy dose of desire.

 

For now, my emotions remain unpredictable, yet another surrender that has been made in the name of health. I chose this, gave my good “yes” to the doctors when they asked for my consent regarding chemo, ovary removal, and a long-term drug that would block any remaining estrogen produced in my body. It was a good decision back then, the best one to prolong my life. But today, it seems too costly. In eradicating the cancer, I’ve eradicated most of my desire, and I find that a life based on obligation and void of desire is a very difficult life to live at times.

 

So be it. I’m not the first person to let go of desire in order to take hold of lasting life.

 

Why the confession? Why plead for your understanding and make it all about me and my woes today? Because in doing so, I believe there is a truth that surfaces for us all—a holy undertaking that typifies the life of an earnest believer.

 

Good health, optimal health, is often the result of hard surrenders. A choice for life is usually preceded by a choice for death . . . letting go of and stripping away the weight that keeps us tethered to the fleeting and unconfirmed desires of our infancy.

 

The life of a saint is a life of work, despite desire, emotion, or a lack therein. To grow up in Christ is to stay near him, move with him, lean into him, and learn from him. The life of a saint is a life of obligation. Once you give him your “yes,” you tether your forever to his. It’s the inescapable reality of salvation. God never promised us a life of ease. Instead, he promised us his presence in the unease, in the struggle, and in the sometimes torturous releases that best enable us to dig into, hold onto, and live unto his glory.

 

So what do we do when desire and emotions aren’t around to fuel our obligations?

 

We keep going. We base our choices for survival on good health, on previous faith, and in the truth that what is not always felt by us is felt by God. Knowing that he holds my desire—knowing that he hasn’t forgotten the woman I once was and the gifting I once felt—is enough to push me forward. I don’t have to understand it all; I just have to keep obliging my feet, my heart, and my mind to the faith that has carried me thus far. It will assuredly carry me home.

 

Obligation. It keeps me connected to God. It keeps him doing the same. We are holy, certainly, and beautifully obliged to one another, now and forever more. And that, sweet friends, is a secret worth sharing . . . one I won’t make you keep to yourself. Go ahead, tell everyone. You have our permission.

 

Peace for the journey,

 

How are you living out your obligation to God despite the difficult surrenders along the way? I’d love to come alongside you in prayer.
 

“Beyond Cancer’s Scars” Part Three (disappointments along the way)

Six years is a long time to hold on to a dream. Really, I’ve been dreaming the dream much longer than that. Some dreams initiate in childhood when minds are less cluttered, less bothered, and more willing to believe that it could easily and actually happen—the fruition of one’s dreams. At the age of three, maybe four I stood on Beulah Riddle’s front porch in Hartsville, IN, dreaming some dreams and forming some words.

“Beulah, I wrote a song. Want to hear it? It goes like this . . .”

I don’t remember the song or the words. I don’t even remember it being a dream at that point. I just remember the memory, singing some phrases and feeling Beulah’s pleasure. Perhaps this was my first foray into the publishing world . . . stringing words together to sing a song, to tell a story, to entreat an audience. It would be a while before I could spell those words and scribble them on paper, but maybe the dream started there, on her front porch.

It hasn’t left me—my desire to tell my story. But that dream has morphed over the years, been shaped by the harsh realities of the publishing industry. Not everyone appreciates my songs like Beulah did. Not everyone is willing to take a chance on my words. I’ve spent the last six years actively trying to get someone’s attention, trying to make it past the front porch of traditional publishing.

It hasn’t worked, at least according to the large folder of rejection letters I’ve collected over the years. I’ve made it to the porch a time or two, even gone so far as to sing a few lines of my song to some well-known publishers. But no one ever sticks around for the benediction. They have their reasons. I’ve heard them all. But none of them feels reasonable to me. Reasons (whether valid or not), don’t change the fact that when rejection arrives, rejection cuts into the dream . . . whittles away at passion and pulse.

I know this one. Past rejections regarding my written words have scarred me, not silenced me but wounded me enough to strengthen my resolve and my decisions for how I want to handle my stories going forward. I carried both my writing scars and my cancer’s scars with me when I attended a writer’s conference last summer, just days after completing my latest manuscript. I also carried this resolution: a publisher’s reluctance to take a risk on me won’t wound me as deeply this go around. If they didn’t want my story, then I would find a way to get my story to readers. Holding this confidence in my heart freed me to be me, to say what I needed to say during the five publisher appointments I snagged during the conference.

My pitches (a.k.a. making your book irresistible to publishers) weren’t perfect; far from it. I blubbered my way through each fifteen minute time slot. In the end, four of the five publishers took my proposal back to their publishing houses. A year later, I’ve yet to hear back from two of them; I almost made it past the front porch with the other two, but in the end, my words received a “thanks, but no thanks”—some kind of mumbling about how cancer doesn’t sell. And I felt the cut, once again. And then I heard these words from my son one October afternoon when my sorrow spilled over on to him (turn up the volume; Jadon used his inside voice on this one):

I did get back up from my wounding, brushed myself off, and found the one idea that worked for me. With the willing and prayerful consent of my husband, we forged ahead to publish the book ourselves, not unlike what I did with my first book. It’s been no small thing; it’s been a huge undertaking. There have been obstacles, frustrations, and a more than few reasons to find my knees along the way. But as we round the corner toward home, I’m thinking that the end result will be worth the struggle to get there. I’ve paid a high price to write this story, both with my flesh and with my bank account. I’ll never get a full return on this investment (at least when measured by industry standards), but I’m counting on something greater . . .

A lasting legacy. A living witness. A personal investment into the lives of those Beulahs who are willing to sit on the front porch with me and listen to my song. If I can give them the words that God has graciously given to me . . . if I can give them to you, then my story, as well as my faith, move forward. In the end, what else matters?

The world doesn’t get the final word on our dreams, friends. God does, and word has it, his front porch is big enough and sturdy enough to cradle them all.

“Beulah, I wrote a song. Want to hear it? It goes like this . . .”

Peace for the journey,

What dreams do you hold in your heart? Who are your “Beulahs”–the ones who’ve championed your story, your dreams? I’d love to hear your witness from the front porch today.

“Beyond Cancer’s Scars” Part Two (writing the book)

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

His words are as clear to me today as they were for me on that Friday night, June 10, 2011. The memory lingers fully . . . beautifully in my heart. Heavenly impressions are not easily forgotten. When God presses his fingerprints on to the pages of our stories—when God gives his directives with such clear and certain authority—there is a grace that comes alongside to solidify that moment and to grant us enough courage and trust to begin our obedience. It takes them both—courage and trust—for us to move forward, because God’s plans don’t always feel reasonable. Sometimes they feel impossible.

Such had been my week when I arrived to that Friday night a year ago, really my previous ten months. I’d stumbled my way through cancer treatments, emerging on the other side of them with more emotional scars than physical ones. Cancer not only strikes the flesh but also strikes the soul—the seat of human emotions. I didn’t notice my soul woundings until the other ones had subsided. It was then, when the silence came, that I began the process of untangling my pain. Some healings require more than stitches and band-aids. Some healings require the salve of time and a gentle Jesus.

On that Friday night, I recognized my profound need. I cried out to God for hope. I’d lost mine somewhere along the way. Oh, I masked it pretty well, even speaking to a group of cancer survivors earlier in the week, challenging them and charging them with hope’s rallying cry. But truth really does speak louder than words, and the truth was, I was losing ground. I wanted to give myself to something better, something higher, something more than the pain that was sucking me under, but I didn’t know how to fully get there. I only knew the first step to take—reading my Bible.

I opened up God’s Word to the bookmarked page and re-read the story I’d been chewing on for the better part of a week. A widow’s story from Luke 21. A story about her offering at the temple treasury—a gift not measured by human scales but a gift counted by God as “more than all the others.” I felt the hand of God squeeze tighter around my soul. It could not be ignored; only acknowledged, only received.

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

And so I did. Right then. I gave God my heart, my insecurities, my words, and my promise that I would be faithful to write the witness of my cancer season, each day, until it was finished. Nothing about that obedience felt reasonable to me; instead, it felt like trust. In that moment, I knew that God wouldn’t fail me; he would help me—his power so effectively working in me would accomplish this, and in the end, it wouldn’t be about what I had done. It would be about everything he had done.

He did do it all. Each day for forty days during the hot, crowded season of summer, God showed up and pressed my thoughts into words and molded my cancer story into something that could be touched, held, and raised to the heavens as my Ebenezer, my “Thus far, the Lord has helped me” (see 1 Sam. 7:12). It was all a bit of a mess at the finish line. Forty days of intense writing leaves little time for editing and critique; that would come later. But on July 19, 2011, I knew it was a completed work and that it wasn’t meant just for me. Down to my last two coppers, I threw my “all” into the treasury of God’s temple, and the healing that took place in my heart can only be explained by the covenant Father who always makes good on his promises.

The writing was done; the hardest part was about to begin. On July 21, 2011, I packed up my suitcase, my messy manuscript, and my growing hope and headed out the door to see about a publisher—to see if anyone else might be willing to latch on to my story and bring it to the public. It didn’t take me long to figure out that writing a book is a whole lot easier than getting it published. But that’s another story for another day, another post—my next post.

Let me leave you with this final thought. If God has pressed his heart’s desire into your heart, if the Father has asked you for a hard obedience in this season (and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s him talking and not his competing counterfeit), then you can trust him with the outcome. Like the widow of Luke 21 and like me, you may be down to your last coppers. But when you do your banking with the King, you can be certain that he will make it count for all eternity. He who began a good work in you will be faithful to see it through to completion.

Count on it. Count on God. As always . . .

Peace for the journey,

What’s in your hand, your heart, your dreams? What is God calling you to surrender into his temple treasury today? I’d love to pray for you.

holding expectation…

Holding verses . . . you know the kind. The scriptures that hold you, keep you, warm you, and sustain you in your darkest hours. Where would we be . . . where would I be without the wrapping of God’s Word around my heart? Here are a few of the holding verses that cradled me during those dark hours named cancer.

 

“Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. Resist him, firm in your faith, knowing that the same kinds of suffering are being experienced by your brotherhood throughout the world. And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you. To him be dominion forever and ever. Amen.” –1 Peter 5:8-11

 

There’s a lot of truth crammed into these four verses; the apostle Peter knew how to make every word count. He knew that the saints back then (those early Christians) would need some holding verses. I wonder if he also knew that we (current day Christians) would need them as well. Oh, the certain timelessness and gracefulness of the inspired Word of God! Indeed, holding words that keep us tethered to eternity.

 

So what did I learn from these four verses during my time of great suffering? What is still being learned? What truths from Peter’s yesterday can we expect to see in our todays?

  • Expect an adversary—the devil. He’s hungry, he’s prowling, and he has you in his sights.
  • Expect your faith. The life you live with God, the faith investments you’ve made into your spiritual bank account, have fortified your heart and your feet for a strong stand against your adversary.
  • Expect companions. You are not the first, nor will you be the last to experience your particular suffering. Brothers and sisters across the planet are struggling too.
  • Expect suffering (refer to first bullet point). Don’t blame God. Put the blame where it belongs.
  • Expect God.
  • Expect grace.
  • Expect an eternal glory in Christ Jesus.
  • Expect God’s willingness and ability.
  • Expect God’s restoration.
  • Expect God’s confirmation.
  • Expect God’s strength.
  • Expect God’s stability.
  • Expect God’s forever . . . and ever.
  • Expect an “amen” from God. A “so be it.” A finish.

 

Suffering days don’t have the final word on our faith and regarding our finishes. God does. And we can expect him . . . beautifully and certainly expect him to superintend our hearts all the way through to the end. He is and forever will be the holding Truth of my heart. I pray he’s yours as well.

 

Be watchful for the movement of God in your lives this weekend, friends. Expect it, even when your adversary seems very close at hand. Especially then, because your Advocate is even closer. I promise. As always . . .

 

Peace for the journey,
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