Category Archives: pain

living life forward . . .

I recognize this girl. Perhaps you do as well.

Every now and again, she shows up on the front curb of my heart, marks off her thirty-six inches of personal space, and refuses to budge from her spot . . . not even for the garbage truck. She’ll risk a little stink in order to stay there . . . stay stuck. There’s something about the sidelines that appeal to her. It’s safer on the curb, less risk and less trouble. Life is hard, cruel at times, knocking her out of the game and keeping her mired in the pain.

Life on hold instead of life lived forward. This is how the hurt never heals.

She doesn’t see it that way; she can’t, because she’s yet to take the first step in a new direction. No one blames her. They’ve stood by and watched the world take out its frustration on her body, mind, and soul. Heartache has numbed her desire, crushed her spirit, and pressed her to the curb. What used to be no longer is, a realization clearly seen and deeply felt there, along the sidelines, while the world journeys on without her. She grieves for yesterday, for what might have been had that soul-eating “something” not arrived to rob her of her progress. And so she stops moving forward, at least for today, and tells herself that tomorrow she’ll get in the game; tomorrow she’ll do the hard work of soul-survivorship.

Life on hold instead of life lived forward. This is how the hurt never heals. This is how the hurt never even has the opportunity to heal. A life resigned to the sidelines is a life resigned to less—to an existence shackled to pain rather than an existence shaped by its prod.

Yes, I recognize this girl—her tears, her frustration, her resignation, and her fears. Maybe you recognize her as well. Maybe she is you. Maybe you’ve been wounded by life . . . by a game-changing punch to the gut that has mocked your strength, rocked your faith, and kicked you to the curb. Life’s been cruel, leaving you with scars that continue to throb their witness. You carry around in your flesh a tumor or two, a soul-eating something that continues to devour your health at a rapid rate. You don’t identify it as a cancer—a disease that occurs when abnormal body cells replicate uncontrollably, thereby replacing the healthy ones. Still and yet, a hidden malignancy exists, and left untreated, it threatens to hold you captive to the one person you thought you’d never be—

A boy, a girl, . . . a man, a woman resigned to the curb—life on hold instead of life lived forward. A life where the hurt never heals.

God wants more for you, for you to live forward with hope and with movement. He hasn’t created you for life on the sidelines, despite the many sorrows and sufferings that have, understandably, pushed you to the curb for a season. Instead, he invites you, even as he has invited me, to take hold of his hand and to find your place on the road of faith—the journey of trust that leads you onward toward wholeness.

This is why I wrote Beyond Cancer’s Scars, an invitation for the wounded—those who suffer from all manner of ills and aches and soul-eating “somethings”—to step courageously away from the curb and to enter the fray to lay claim to a stronger spirit in Jesus Christ.

Life lived forward instead of life on hold. This is how our hurt begins to heal. One beautiful, courageous, and intentional step at a time. If you are someone who is living life on hold, then I invite you to take hold of my hand and, together, we will take hold of the heart and hands of Jesus Christ and start living forward. Time to get in the game, friends. Life is so much better with you in it. As always . . .

Peace for the journey,

when God speaks a “something” over you…

“. . . the word of the LORD tested him.” –Psalm 105:19

Sometimes he tells me. Sometimes keeping it inside pins him down . . . pushes him down where the pain hurts deeply and the tears flow easily. Sometimes the world slams cruelly and unfairly into him, moving him to the outer edges of what’s reasonable. Sometimes it’s just too much. Last night was one of those times.

And so he told me . . . laid down beside me, took my hand and shared with me the deepest ache of his heart.

 “Elaine, I can’t give in to this despair. Even when I want to, I can’t, because I believe that at any moment, on any given day, God might show me that something I’ve been waiting to see. And if I give in to despair, I’ll miss it–God’s something. And baby, I don’t want to miss it. I don’t want you to miss it either, so I’ll keep holding on for both of us.”

And then I broke, lying there beside my man. Hand in hand. Hearts aching together. Hearts longing for, looking for, and believing in that something . . . God’s something. A something spoken over our lives a season ago that brought us to this place, this space, this dot on the map named ministry.

A long time ago, there was a boy on the verge of manhood, a seventeen-year-old dreamer named Joseph (see Genesis 37-40). God, too, spoke a something into his heart. A dream or two about taking the lead, about rising to the occasion, about being the man in a season yet to come. What incredible privilege to hold such holy affirmation, confirmation in one’s heart—to be told in advance that you’ll be needed, you’ll be trusted, you’ll be used by God in a mighty way! Joseph’s dreams were far grander than his reality, and to pack all that truth inside his heart only to be cruelly taunted by that truth . . . for years? Well, lesser men would have given in to their despair, would have wilted under confinement, and would have stopped anticipating God’s greater move . . . God’s grander something.

But Joseph wasn’t a lesser man. Neither is my man. Both of them, God’s men—God’s appointed leadership despite a long season of taunts to the contrary. Like Joseph, my husband is a man willing to believe in a dream and to keep his feet and faith planted on the path that will move him closer to seeing that dream become a reality, even when that path feels like a dead-end.

There are no dead-ends with God. Only living ones. Living-ends with the Lover and Creator of our souls. The dreams that God breathes into our hearts, the plans that he has for us, the thoughts that he thinks toward us, well, they are holy. Consecrated. Truthful. Enduring. God’s dreams for our lives arrive with a pulse and with a promise—that he who began a very good and gracious work inside of us will be faithful to see it through to completion (Phil. 1:6). Dreams that begin and end there—with God—are dreams that cannot be thwarted, only anticipated.

And so, today, my man anticipates. With one hand, he grips the dream—God’s something—and with the other hand, he grips me. He pulls me toward anticipation . . . toward the dream, and I am swallowed up by the quicksand of his faith. I’m drawn into it, immersed in the raw and gritty determination of the dream, and that which began as a great pain in my husband’s heart last night has transformed into a great strength for both of us this day. Once again, we give our hearts and our hands to this place, this space, this dot on the map named ministry.

Today just might be the day when the dream awakens to reality. I don’t want to miss it should it arrive. As always…

Peace for the journey,
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PS: Many thanks to all of you for entering the give-away. Unfortunately, only two winners this go around, and they are… Jane Babich and Kathie! Ladies, please contact me with via e-mail with your mailing information. Jane, I don’t have any contact info for you. Thanks.

"You are Beautiful in God’s Eyes" by Lisa Shaw (a give-away)

Several months ago, I wrote a post on solving the problem of pain. In it, I talk about the idea of personal creativity and its direct connection to helping heal the wounds of others. Musicians play instruments. Singers sing. Bakers bake. Teachers teach. Planners plan. And writers… well we write. We give our words to others in hopes that something we’ve written might resonate with readers in a positive way, thus fostering heart health—body, soul, and spirit.

Lisa Shaw is one such writer, and she delivers a message of healing in her first book release, You are Beautiful in God’s Eyes. I’ve read the book through a few times now, even keeping it on my nightstand. Why? Well, I like the cover. Seeing Lisa’s beautiful smile reminds me of the loving investments she’s made into my heart over the years. Secondly, I keep her book handy because every word contained within is a continual reminder for me to look beyond the flawed perceptions I harbor about myself and, instead, to begin to see myself as God sees me.

Beautiful. Created by God’s hand. Thought about. Considered. In God’s image. On God’s heart.

Indeed, a message easily forgotten by me on days when I’m tempted by the enemy to focus solely on my imperfections. Each chapter in Lisa’s book rings with a clarion call to get back to the basics… back to the beginning when Father God sat with the idea of me on the front side of Genesis and called me very good. The idea of me when he walked his Son to a bloody grave. The idea of me when he walked his Son out from the grave and into the folds of heaven. The idea of me when he sent his Spirit to dwell in the hearts of his people. The idea of me when he tucked my life inside the safety of my mother’s womb. The idea of me some forty-five years later when it’s sometimes easy to forget that I’m still God’s very good idea… warts and all.

Perhaps you understand. Perhaps there are seasons when you’re easily swayed by personal opinion rather than God’s opinion. Times when you let down your spiritual guard to entreat the lies of the enemy that label you to a lesser degree than God’s very good. If that’s you (and it’s certainly been me), then You are Beautiful in God’s Eyes is a good starting point for redefining who you are in Jesus Christ.

Lisa writes like Lisa lives—authentically and passionately for the kingdom cause. She is a strong encourager of God’s people and an even stronger advocate for the transforming work of God’s Word. Lisa doesn’t let her readers off the hook easily. She calls for greater discipleship on the part of her readers, a willingness to dig deeply for the “beautiful” that belongs to each one of us as God’s children. I am grateful for her deliberate prod and for her obedience to take the Father’s message to the world. In doing so, she is helping to solve the problem of pain.

Thank you, Lisa, for writing these words. You are beautiful in God’s eyes and in mine. As always…

Peace for the journey,
elaine

PS: For a chance to win a copy of Lisa’s book, please leave me a comment expressing your interest. In addition to Lisa’s book, the winner will receive a set of Cindy’s handmade note cards as beautifully promoted at her Etsy shop.

Please take time to review Cindy’s craftsmanship and let me know some of your favorites. She, too, helps to solve the problem of pain with her creativity! The winner of Lisa’s book and Cindy’s note cards will be announced with my next post. Shalom.

When Cancer Comes Calling…

She called me to tell me that her cancer had returned. Truthfully, neither one of us thought it had gone anywhere, but we didn’t mention it. Instead, we just held the moment together. Paused long enough to breathe in and out a time or two and then continued in our conversation. Inwardly, I was gasping for air … careful not to fill the moment with my fret. It wouldn’t have been fair to her, to her news, her disappointment, the painful reality that was about to unfold for her … again.

More chemo. More testing. More spreading of the disease she’s fought against so valiantly in the eight months I’ve known her. I don’t really have the words to give to her. She doesn’t need empty promises or half-truths based on sentimental notions. She certainly doesn’t need false hope or a casual toss of faith-speak in her direction. No, she needs more. Something solid, real, tender, and truthful. A safe place to place her trust. A refuge in which to plant her seeds of pain. A retreat from the cruelty of blood draws, intravenous drips, and the stale taste of poison in her mouth.

She needs a friend, and she chose me. Silently, I struggle for the right words, questioning my qualifications. How can I mend this one, love this one, help this one through the struggle this go around? There are so many of us, Lord. So many cancer friends.

  • One who’s just finished her chemo.
  • Another one just getting started.
  • A mentor beautifully gracing the stage of her Stage IV.
  • Another fourth grade mom swollen with lymphedema.
  • A farmer who buried his daughter—my friend—and who now wages the cancer battle himself.
  • One of my “ancients” struggling in isolation from the rest of them, from me.
  • Several of us in a holding pattern—caught between our last year and the year to come. All of us quietly wondering if maybe the cancer’s just napping beneath our scars.

Yes, so many of us walking the ribboned road. Trying to be brave. Trying to hold the banner of hope high so that others won’t worry. Trying to be friends, be comforters, be supporters, and be the hands and feet of Jesus to those who need to be touched by truth. It’s a weighty responsibility, yet one gladly accepted by most of us. One I willingly accepted just over a year ago.

Entrusted. Remember?

Every time I want to quit, want to pull away and pretend that I am someone without a story, I look down at my wrist and think on that word. That charge. That privilege given to me—to be trusted with so much. When I go there with my thoughts, I almost always go to my knees, and I say “yes” all over again to the story that is mine, come what may.

Cancer will always be coming for someone. Fifty percent of all men and one-third of all women will personally experience the disease at some point in their journeys. Cancer doesn’t seem in a hurry to retreat, so neither must I. It’s as simple and as difficult as that.

To stay. To stand closely to cancer. To straddle the fence with one foot in the path of healing and one foot in the path of pain, with faith as the sturdy post in between. I will not leave the wounded behind. I will wait with them; walk with them; wonder with them; weep with them. It’s what I choose to do, because I believe it’s what my Father chooses to do every time his children come crawling to the threshold of heaven extending their personal pain in the direction of his heart.

God never fills those moments with his fret. Instead, he offers something solid, real, tender, and truthful in return. He offers his presence. A staying, standing-close-by promise of personal involvement. Why? Because he was the first one ever entrusted with a story. A cross. A red ribbon embedded into his brow, tied to his hands, threaded through to his side, cascading downward to his feet. A ribbon that threads through to our hearts and that pulls tightly on his every time our tears shed their witness.

When we need a safe place, a refuge, a retreat, a friend … we have one in Jesus. Every time he thinks about us … looks down at his wrists and reads the truth written behind the scars imprinted there … he goes to his knees on our behalf and says “yes” again to the story that is his. A weighty responsibility to be sure, a worthy gain for all eternity.

Oh to be like Jesus … even a little bit!

There will be no quitting today, not for me. Just more of the road in front of me and more of the ribbon behind me. If you need to, grab on friends. I’m heading in the right and good direction. I’m heading home. As always…

Peace for the journey,
~elaine

this is my gospel…

 “Remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead, descended from David. This is my gospel, for which I am suffering even to the point of being chained like a criminal. But God’s word is not chained.” (2 Timothy 2:8-9).

Quietly, she’s entered into my world. A month ago, I didn’t know she existed. But then she slipped in. Courageously and without pretense she came. Settled in close to my pew, even closer to my heart. And there she has stayed.

A single mom of a one-year-old daughter. Broken. Scarred. Frightened. Confused. Feeling like nothing, like forgotten, like trapped with nowhere else to run to but to church. No one else to turn to but to Jesus.

What courage she has displayed with her choosing—with the willing exposure of her heart to complete strangers in hopes of finding solace to replace the aggravation she has known. Something tells me she needs me. Something tells me I need her as well. And in the midst of all the needing, I search for answers—for a gift to give her beyond the customary hug and offer of prayer. I long to do more, to give better, to reach beyond safe borders in order to fix her heart and to remove her pain.

It is immense, her pain. Relevant and obvious. Tender and confrontational. One would be hard-pressed to miss it; still and yet, most will go out of their way to avoid it. Personal pain is hard enough to manage without taking on the pain of a stranger. So I tread cautiously, carefully toward her, creating a safe place for her to share her story. Bits and pieces are emerging to form a clearer picture. As they materialize, I hold them in my heart and try to make sense of it all. Try to manage my reactions; try to reason my responses. Try to figure out what I can tell her that might bring her one step closer to freedom. Try to get the words out of my heart that will usher her to the threshold of God’s hold. Try to give her truth. True truth. Not relative truth, but real faith-in-the-flesh God truth.

Jesus Christ.

This is my gospel. He is my gospel.

Jesus Christ, raised from the dead. Jesus Christ, descended from David. Jesus Christ, God’s Son. Jesus Christ, Son of Man. God incarnate. God made flesh. God with me, Emmanuel.

This is my gospel. My glad tidings and sacred proclamation of the grace that I have found in Jesus Christ. The good news according to the good Book that has led millions of souls down the path toward freedom to arrive beneath the threshold of God’s hold. This is where I begin with her—where the hug extends its witness beyond what is safe and customary.

The Gospel is anything but.

The Gospel is the most confrontational, exceptional, and beautifully dangerous word of truth ever received by and into human hearts. It is the one key to unlocking personal pain. The one salve to soothe suffering. The one road map that will point the lost toward home. It’s all I know to give her. The best I know to give her.

This is my gospel. This is my story. It will be enough to point her home.

What is your gospel, friends? Your story? Your truth? Will it be enough to point the broken, the scarred, the frightened, and the confused back to Jesus? Is the grace and freedom you’ve received as your own the same grace and freedom you extend to others? What life has settled in next to yours that needs the witness of something more than a customary hug or offer of prayer? When was the last time you spoke truth into pain … grace and mercy into brokenness? The last time you stretched your heart wide to include the heart of the hurting?

It’s not always easy to extend welcoming inclusion to others, especially when suffering your own personal trauma. But one thing is for certain. Pain isn’t going anywhere, nor are those who are most affected by its insistence. Pain is all around us and will continue its assault upon us until we’re willing to treat it with the truth of Jesus Christ.

The God who chose to make his dwelling with us.
The God who has suffered as we have suffered.
The God who willingly walked to the cross so that we might walk in freedom.
The God who rose from the dead so that we might, also, one day rise to him.

This is my gospel. A worthy truth. A worthy witness. A worthy Word for all seasons, painful and otherwise. Would you take time to examine the gospel according to you this week? Do so beneath the watchful gaze of the Gospel according to Jesus Christ. Find where you are lacking and strengthen your story. There’s a hurting heart, maybe even nestled in next to you on the pew, who needs the witness of God’s truth. No one can live it, speak it, and give it as well as you can.

Even so, get to it… keep to it. As always…

Peace for the journey,
~elaine

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