The hero of my story

We begin by thinking we are the authors and heroes of our stories. We give ourselves a starring role. We start with plans, aspirations and expectations: studies, marriage, children, career. Perhaps our dreams have the appearance of selflessness: ministry, mission, service. But still we are the heroes, preferably sung rather than unsung. Our families flourish. Our ministries are fruitful. Our plans succeed.

And then they don’t. Earlier this year, I was at the hospital – again – with my chronically ill son. We walked past the room where my husband had chemotherapy two years ago. Sometimes I wonder if I imagined that chemotherapy has a smell, and then I walk down that corridor and realise, nope, it wasn’t just in my mind. It’s a chemical smell that sticks to the back of your throat and lingers in your nasal passages. One sniff, and I was swallowed up by memories: weeks of sitting by Steve’s hospital bed, and months of watching him endure chemotherapy. We’re now in that nervous waiting stage where we don’t know whether the cancer will return. In a few weeks, we’ll get the results of another scan. You learn not to dwell on it; but the awareness is always there, like something flickering at the edge of your sight. This has become my story; a very different story from the one I would have written for myself.

Life refuses to shape itself to the neat narratives we write for it. When you’re young, you lay your plans: you’ll study this course, get that job, marry, have this many kids, do these ministries. At some point you realise life isn’t turning out the way you thought it would. Sometimes, as in my case, this might be because life takes an unexpected turn – our son’s chronic ill health, my husband’s cancer – but often it’s simply because we’ve reached a certain age and our hopes haven’t been realised (aka: the midlife crisis). This can lead to grief and fear. But it’s also an opportunity to learn something we should have known already: that we’re not the author of our stories; God is. He is the one who ordains every one of our days (Psalm 139:16 cf. Prov 16:9).

God is the author of my story. And he’s a far better author than I could ever be. I wouldn’t have written so much hardship into the recent pages of our life. But as I look back, I’m surprised to realise that, in some ways, the suffering is the part I’m most grateful for. It’s helped me see just how weak I am, and driven me to rely on God’s strength. It’s chased me into his arms, and deepened my knowledge of him. It compels me to set my hope on eternity rather than this life, and moves me to comfort others with the comfort I’ve received (2 Cor 1:3-7). I don’t fear the future like I used to, because God has been with me in the darkest times. I have tested him, and he has proved true. His faithfulness seems tangible to me now, solid rock under my feet. My faith is more stable, my joy more intense, and Jesus more precious. No one would ask for it – the grief, pain and fear – but in God’s mercy I have gained more than I have lost.

Of course, this perspective is only possible at one of those pauses in the story when you stop and reflect on what is past. On the darker pages that perspective is lost. There was one morning – I don’t like to remember it – when I woke out of a deep sleep to gut-wrenching tears and faced fully, perhaps for the first time, what all this might mean: my husband gone and four children to bring up on my own. On that day going on seemed too hard, because I don’t want to live this story – who would? Yet I know that, however dark these pages – however hard it is to see now – the day will come when I will see and understand. For the author of this story is a master story-teller, and no sentence is wasted. He crafts every paragraph with care and precision. I may be bruised and battered and broken – sometimes I wonder if I will make it at all – but he turns my weakness into strength and my brokenness into blessing. This story may pass through darkness, yet in his hands, I know it will end in joy.

Better than that, this author hasn’t stayed outside the story, an omniscient, removed narrator; he has become a character on its pages. He knows what it is to cry out in the dark, and he is the one who overcomes the darkness. For in the end, this isn’t my story at all. Not only am I not the author of my story, I’m not the hero either. My part in this narrative serves to do one thing: highlight and direct attention to Jesus. He is the hero of this story, not me. My story is a tiny part of a much bigger one, the story of God making and winning a people for himself, from the creation of the first quark, to the crisis of the cross, to the climax when everything is brought under the kingship of the Son (1 Cor 15: 22-28; Eph 1:3-10; Col 1:15-20).

So forget me being the author of my story. The real Author is far more skilled than I am. Forget me being the hero of my story. Jesus is front and centre on all its pages. Forget this being my story. It’s God’s story, and it’s moving towards the glory of his Son. We’re all caught up in a bigger story, you and I, and that’s exactly the way it should be.

This post first appeared at The Gospel Coalition Australia

Image: Manuscript of David Copperfield, © Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

Psalm 90: A walk with Moses

It all gets swept away. Or perhaps it’s that we are swept away, like pieces of bark on a river, unable to turn back, pressed against snags and stones. The banks slide by; one glimpse, and the things we pass are gone. And finally, the inevitable: worn down by time and decay, we fragment, break apart, particles mixing into the water like dust.

Fragile. Troubled. Uncertain. That is life. A wild flower scorched by the sun, blown by the wind, its blossom fallen and its beauty forgotten (Ps 103:15-16; Job 14:2; Jas 1:10-11). Grass that springs up new in the morning but by evening is dry and withered (Ps 90:5; Isa 40:6-7). A fleeting breath, an evening shadow that fades away (Ps 102:11, 109:23, 144:4; Job 7:7, 8:9, 14:1-2).

It’s not a comfortable thought. But it’s not one that I can avoid. We live with the possibility that my husband’s cancer may return. My son’s chronic ill health continues. There are changes in work and ministry. My mentor, the woman who helps me navigate these things, is moving away.

Have you ever experienced an earthquake? I have. Though perhaps it was a meteorite that shook the ground—I don’t remember now. What I do remember is the nightmarish sensation of the earth moving underfoot, as if it had turned from solid to liquid; the sense that something you took for granted, didn’t even notice, firm under your feet, could no longer be counted on.

I am standing on shifting ground. Loss and grief and change threaten, and there is nothing I can do to control them. I want to cling to the things and people I depend on, hold tight and not let go. But I am helpless to stop the inevitable, protect those I love, prevent them from leaving, keep them whole, preserve their lives, my life, even for a day.

So I open Psalm 90. I walk with Moses, this “man of God” who knew such great salvation and such deep sorrow. If anyone was familiar with the fragility of life, it was Moses, who watched a whole generation die in the desert. His words are bleak: our days, even the best of them, are full of trouble and sorrow; they quickly pass and we fly away, swept up in the sleep of death, turned back to dust; our years, seventy or eighty if we have the strength, finish with a moan.

Yet there is something that will never change, and it is there in the opening verse of the Psalm: God himself. He is “our dwelling place in all generations”. “From everlasting to everlasting” he is Lord. “A thousand years” in his sight “are but as yesterday when it is past”. Like Moses, we cry to him for mercy, help and salvation, for his love does not fail. He alone can establish the work of our hands.

Life is brief, full of loss and change. The people and things we depend on are fragile and fleeting. We can’t hold onto them. We can’t even direct our own path. But there is one thing that never alters, one thing we can count on, and that is God himself. He is from everlasting to everlasting. He is our strong and secure dwelling place. We take refuge in him.

Father, “teach us to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom” (Ps 90:12).

This post first appeared at GoThereFor.com.

contentment (9) godly discontent

It’s not just contentment that is godly. Discontent can be godly too. In fact, true godliness is always discontented.

There are many things in this life that should make us deeply dissatisfied. We should be dissatisfied with sin. We should be dissatisfied when friends and family don’t know Jesus. We should be dissatisfied when brothers and sisters in Christ drift away from God. The difference between ungodly and godly discontent is that the first is centred on us and our needs, and the second is motivated by love for Christ and others.

It’s also okay to be dissatisfied with suffering ... The Bible is full of grief and pain. Just think about the Psalms ...

We are supposed to be discontent with this life. We are supposed to long for eternity. If we are content with this life – if we don’t long for the next – there is something wrong with our faith ...

Read the rest at TGC Australia.

life in God's waiting room

I’ve been thinking about waiting. The waiting you do when your hopes and dreams have been deferred—again. The waiting you do when you’re offered the opportunity you longed for but have to turn it down—again. The waiting you do when the future is uncertain and your plans can only be tentative and provisional—again.

Waiting, through twelve years of raising young children and five years of our son’s chronic illness, for a time when I can do more of the ministry I love outside the home. Waiting, through my husband’s cancer diagnosis, a six-week hospital stay and half a year of chemotherapy, to be washed up on the shores of not-quite-ordinary life again. Waiting, now, for his medical scans, the fork in the road; one path leading to further treatment, the other to four more years of waiting until we receive the all-clear.

Waiting for the waiting to be over.

So what do I do, here in life’s waiting room? Do I choose escapism? Do I complain and grow resentful? I do both, sometimes. But surely there are better uses of this time.

Here’s how I see it. There are two possible things going on here.

The first is that this isn’t so much a waiting room as God’s training-ground. A hothouse where I’m grown in Christlike character (Jas 1:2-4). A boot-camp to strengthen the muscles of perseverance, humility and hope (Rom 5:3-4; 1 Pet 5:6-11). God’s university, where he teaches me to mourn with those who mourn (Rom 12:15) and gives me the comfort that I will one day share with others (2 Cor 1:3-7), preparing me for life and ministry.

The second is that this isn’t a waiting room for life; it is life. These hardships may continue for many years. In which case, this isn’t preparation for anything more than the hard slog of patient endurance. And that’s okay. Because if I never get to do the ministries I long for, and just keep encouraging others by trusting God in hardship, that will be sufficient service for a lifetime.

Come to think of it, those aren’t alternatives. They are different perspectives, views of the same reality from opposite sides. Whatever God has in store, this is both training for life and life itself. This is the life God has given us. You don’t stop living just because you are waiting.

So what do I do, here in the waiting room?

• I fulfil the duties of this time. I may not have chosen them—the doctors’ visits, the extra school trips, the weight of care—but this is the good work God has given me, and I try (and often fail!) to do it cheerfully, patiently and well. 
• I make the most of the time we have together as a family to build strong relationships as a foundation for whatever may come (I’ve planned more family holidays and weekends with my husband this year). 
• I train my own mind, and the hearts and minds of our children, to trust God during the trials we face now and the ones we may face in the future. 
• I remember all those who have waited: for an affliction to end (Ps 27:14), a prayer to be answered (Ps 5:3), a ministry to begin (Exod 7:7), a hope to be fulfilled (1 Sam 1), and (this includes all of us) for Jesus to return (Rev 22:20). I am not alone. 
• I put one foot in front of the other. Sometimes this means telling myself, “I know you feel lousy, but just do the next thing. It might make you feel a little better, and if it doesn’t, at least you will have finished one more task.” 
• I pray the prayers of those who wait (e.g. Ps 130), bringing my fear, grief, disappointment and frustration to God, turning to him rather than away from him. 
• I make plans that assume life will continue the way it is but that allow for uncertainty, then commit these plans into God’s hands (Jas 4:13-15). 
• I manage my energy levels so I can keep serving: a good night’s sleep, regular exercise, a daily time of rest, and a weekly morning off to read an encouraging book, pray, and reflect on life. 
• I live the ordinary Christian life wherever we are, from hospital to home (1 Pet 4:19). I read my Bible, pray for others, turn from sin, meet with God’s people, and try to use every opportunity to make Jesus known. 
• I choose ministries that I can maintain, that use my limited time effectively to meet others’ needs, and that allow for interruptions. It helps if some of these ministries energize me so I can fulfil my primary ministry to our family. 
• I learn the lessons that waiting teaches me: that we may plan, but God directs our steps (Prov 16:9); that the building of his kingdom doesn’t depend on our usefulness (Ps 127:1-2; 1 Cor 3:7-9); that his grace is sufficient for every day he gives us to face (2 Cor 12:9-10). 
• I fight to choose contentment, thanksgiving, trust, and joy (1 Thess 5:16-18), remembering that God’s plans for me are better than any I could make for myself.

I don’t want to waste this time in the waiting room. I want to use it, every bit of it. Whether it turns out to be a waiting room or simply the life God has given us, I want to be able to look back and say: I did the work God gave me to do, in his strength and for his glory. And that is more honour than I deserve, and joy and privilege enough for me.

This article first appeared at GoThereFor.com.

Photo credit: Erich Ferdinand

what I'm reading: why God allows evil

I was hunting through some old drafts, looking for something to post on a mostly empty blog (we have been away), when I came across this quote from Tim Keller's Walking with God through pain and suffering. Such an encouragement!

Why could it not be that God allowed evil because it will bring us all to a far greater glory and joy than we would have had otherwise? Isn't it possible that the eventual glory and joy we will know will be infinitely greater than it would have been had there been no evil?

What if that future world will somehow be greater for having once been broken and lost? If such is the case, that would truly mean the utter defeat of evil. Evil would not just be an obstacle to our beauty and bliss, but it will have only made it better. Evil would have accomplished the very opposite of what it intended.

How might that come about? At the simplest level, we know that only if there is danger can there be courage. And apart from sin and evil we would never have seen the courage of God, or the astonishing extent of his love, or the glolry of a deity who lays aside his glory and goes to the cross.

For us here in this life, the thought of God's glory is rather remote and abstract. But we must realize that the most rapturous delights you have ever had - in the beauty of a landscape, or in the pleasure of food, or in the fulfillment of a loving embrace - are like dewdrops compared to the bottomless ocean of joy that it will be to see God face-to-face (1 John 3:1-3). That is what we are in for, nothing less.

And according to the Bible, that glorious beauty, and our enjoyment of it, has been immeasurable enhanced by Christ's redemption of us from evil and death ... Because of our fall and redemption, we will achieve a level of intimacy with God that cannot be received any other way ...

And why could it not be that our future glory will actually so "swallow" the evil of the past that in some unimaginable way even the memory of the evil won't darken our hearts but only make us happier? (117-118)

what I'm reading: learning surrender

One of the ways suffering shapes you is that it teaches you peace. It teaches you surrender. It teaches you to trust and accept God's will. It teaches you that his love and grace will always be there, no matter what.

After four years of fighting God over my son's chronic illness - of asking him, "Why?" - of crying out with bitterness, there was a night, etched deep in my memory, when I reached the bottom of the well, that dark place where there's nothing left but surrender. And with that surrender came peace.

And so, when my husband Steve was diagnosed with cancer, there was something in me that accepted it. The day I heard, I felt angry at God - I don't deny it. But it took much less time for me to reach a place of surrender. I have seen God's love in the hardest places. It is strong, and it is real. And so I can submit myself more gladly to his will.

Which is all by way of introduction to this quote, from a women who suffered two miscarriages, and then, years later, another two. Here's what she says:

We tried again and miscarried—my fourth miscarriage during six years of marriage. My response during those days was quite different from the first two. I was sobered. I knew I didn’t have control—I couldn’t make a baby be born—and I was surrendered to that fact.

I was also at peace. I had spent the last few years preparing for another trial, and God’s promise stood true:

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus (Phil. 4: 6-7).

Surrendering to the Lord, crying out for help, and thanking him for what I did have proved to bring me great peace. God also tells us that the mind set on him will be given peace, because that person trusts the Lord (Is. 26:3). The Lord was faithful to fulfill these promises. I was at peace because he had given me peace. I was at peace because Jesus was enough for me.

Can I encourage you not to be scared of suffering? Yes, it is terrible, and it hurts horribly. But God will be there for you. You may not see it straight away; it may take years for you to see it; but it is true. His will is good. His grace is enough. He walks with us. He shelters us. And nothing and nobody can separate us from his love for us in Jesus. Be at peace.

You can read the full article by Trillia Newbell at Christianity Today.

what I'm reading: preparing for death

The day of death is the greatest day that a Christian can ever experience in this world because that is the day he goes home, the day he walks across the threshold, the day he enters the Father's house.

You won't find a shelf labelled "death" at your local Christian bookstore. Have a look, and tell me if I'm wrong. My guess is that you'll find shelves marked "marriage" and "prayer", but probably not a section on dying.

Your local Puritan bookstore (if there was such a thing) would have been different. You'd find plenty of books on marriage and prayer - the Puritans were great practical theologians - but there'd also be a shelf labelled "dying well". And that's not because they were gloomy do-gooders, as the stereotype goes, but because they were wise and happy realists.

We could do with more modern Christian books on death. Not just on the practical aspects of dying or the stages of grief, but on how to "do death well", with faith and hope and courage. Death is something we will all come to. It's scary and overwhelming, and it would be good for us to know how to prepare for it.

And so I'd like to recommend RC Sproul's Surprised by suffering: a book about suffering with a particular focus on death. Despite the topic, it's not dreary or depressing, but joyful and uplifting. I suggest you read it now. Don't save it for the time you need it, when you may not be able to read at all.

To encourage you today, and to whet your appetite for more, here's a brief sample:

We have considered suffering as a vocation. Dare we think of death as a vocation, too? ... Every one of us is called to die ... Sometimes the call comes suddenly and without warning. Sometimes it comes with advance notification. But it comes to all of us. And it comes from God. ...

Because of Christ, death is not final. It is a passage from one world to the next. ...

The valley of the shadow of death is a valley where the sun's rays often seem to be blotted out. To approach it is to tremble. We would prefer to walk around it, to seek a sage bypass. But men and women of faith can enter that valley without fear ...

God will not send us where He refused to go Himself ...

The valley of the shadow of death is not a box canyon. It is a passageway to a better country ... The goal of the vocation of death is heaven itself. But there is no route to heaven except through that valley.

Quotes are from RC Sproul Surprised by suffering 39, 49-56.

contentment (1) at a time like this

A good friend of mine agreed to give talks on a woman’s conference. The topic? Contentment. A few weeks before the conference, she found out she might have breast cancer. She gave the talks anyway.

If you can’t talk about contentment at a time like this, when can you?

Five years ago, my son got sick. The doctor thought it was whooping cough. But instead of getting better, he started getting worse. He was home from school for weeks at a time, and then for months. He was finally diagnosed with chronic daily headaches and migraines complicated by chronic fatigue syndrome. He has learned to manage his condition, but he still suffers daily. His illness prompted me to add the topic of contentment to the teaching schedule for our women’s group.

If you can’t talk about contentment at a time like this, when can you?

Just over a year ago, my husband began to experience strange symptoms. He grew weaker and weaker. Medical tests came up blank. He started vomiting, became unable to keep any food down, and was hospitalised. We found out he had a rare small bowel cancer that couldn’t be picked up in the usual scans. Two months after major surgery and at the beginning of six months of chemotherapy, I was due to give a talk on contentment. I could have cancelled, but something told me there would never be a better time. ...

Read the rest at The Gospel Coalition Australia.

what I'm reading: suffering as vocation

"Suffering is a vocation, a calling from God."

Eight words on the first page of RC Sproul's Surprised by suffering, and I'm stopped in my tracks. I've never heard anyone say that before. I think it's a knowledge Christians lost somewhere along the way. Yet the awareness has been nudging at me for years, and it's good to hear someone say it.

Suffering. It's the calling no one wants. The gift no one asks for. "For it has been granted to you on behalf of Christ not only to believe in him, but also to suffer for him" (Phil 1:29). The word "granted" literally means "gifted". But who would want a gift like that?

You know what I thought my life would be like? What I saw as my vocation? How I thought I'd use my gifts? Marriage. Children. An active ministry to women.

Tick to the first two. But the last one has been put on hold more times then I can count. The year my youngest child went back to school, when many women edge their way back into work and ministry outside the home, my oldest son became chronically ill. I spent four years caring for him and, last year, for my husband who has cancer.

Do I resent this? Well, yes, sometimes, when I'm tempted to compare myself with others. But truly, no. My love for my husband and son has deepened. And like many who have suffered, I wouldn't swap what I have learned about God's love for anything. What I used to know in theory, I now know from experience: there really is nothing he will not give us grace to face.

But of course part of me asks: what happened to the life I planned?

Here's what happened: God had better plans for us. Harder and better ones. We run this race in the sight of others. And if we have to make Jesus known through our pain and our tears, then so be it. Because I would rather have this life with him than my carefully planned life without him.

Right now, we're called to the vocation of suffering. It's a high calling, and a hard one. It will drive you away from God, or drive you deeper into his love: there are only two ways about it. If we choose to turn to him, even when it hurts, he will never let us down or let us go.

I was going to tell you more about the book Surprised by Suffering, but my thoughts got stuck on the first page. I'll save the rest for another day. For the moment, this knowledge is enough:

"Suffering is a vocation, a calling from God."

online meanderings

Okay, so I was never going to do another online meanderings, but I want to remember these posts! So here they are. Just a few from my recent online reading, which I am finally getting back to ...

What not to ask someone who is grieving - A wonderful description of grief, though I think the question, "How are you?", is fine if asked by someone who is truly concerned.

Which promises are for me? - I loved this article on how to read God's promises. So often misused.

Straight talk on trials - What she said.

3 reasons to love the Psalms - One day you will need them.

The introverted pastor's wife - A topic I'm often asked to write about.

The worst ever honeymoon - Need a good belly laugh?

We need to know, in the core of our being, down in the cellar of our souls, that God’s love and approval do not depend on anything we do. The same God who made us from dust knows we are dust, and He redeemed us Himself. We are caught in His arms, caught in His gaze, and there is nothing left for us to prove. There is only God’s love, and the Cross has already proved it. - Elizabeth Trotter

Little faith will bring your souls to Heaven, but great faith will bring Heaven to your souls. — C. H. Spurgeon

straight talk on trials

Straight talk on trials from Lisa Spence. I had to quote this so I wouldn't forget it:

1. How I react to the trial reflects what I really care about. This is an ugly truth, but one worth considering with great soberness. Whether it is a sudden devastation or a lingering irritation, what I value will be exposed by my reactions and most often this will require confession and repentance as I work through the sin and idols that are exposed.

2. The Lord is my only true hope and comfort. This truth is closely related to #1. As my false comforts and selfish desires are exposed, I must rehearse to myself the sufficiency of the Lord. Whatever it is I think I want or need I will find it in the Lord!

3. The Lord was faithful yesterday, He is faithful today, and He will be faithful tomorrow. How easily I forget the countless ways He delivers me and sustains me! Rehearsing His past faithfulness fuels my trust in Him.

You can read the rest here.

on the path to the cancer ward

There's a chemical smell that hits you on the way to the cancer centre. Some bright spark of an architect put the building's main vents just near the entrance doors. Every time you walk up the path, the smell of chemo hits you. Once you've been to an oncology ward, you don't forget that smell.

Every two weeks, we drive to Steve's appointment in heavy silence. We drag our feet up that path while I try not to breathe in. We sit in the chairs in the hallway; he stares into space while I fight back tears and fight down panic. A nurse calls his name, shows him to a chair: a green vinyl recliner, more suited to watching TV than to having poison pumped into your veins. We wait for the slow drip-drip! drip-drip! of the drugs.

The aim of Steve's chemo is curative. Or so they keep reminding us. I think it's to help us "stay positive". It doesn't help much. Doctors are relatively confident about colorectal tumours, and that's how they're treating Steve's small bowel cancer; but no one knows much about this rare disease.

Except God, of course. He knows every cell in Steve's body, and he is not at the mercy of statistics or uncertain prognoses or rare cancers. And so we fight to trust him.

And it has been a fight. Steve grieves the half-life he's forced to live. From days full of active ministry, to days lying on a couch, watching the cricket, and occasionally playing a game with the kids or getting some shopping or going for a slow walk down the street: it might sound like a holiday, but if so, this is no Hawaii.

The side-effects of chemo - nausea (controlled by steroids that give you sleepnessness instead of vomiting), numbing fatigue, brain-fog, peripheral neuropathy (tingling and numbness in fingers and toes), and a throat spasm that turned out to be a rare reaction to one of the chemicals - are hard to endure and hard to watch.

The last month has been easier for Steve. Two cycles ago they took him off one of the two main chemo drugs (he's still on the most important one) and the symptoms have reduced. He's past the worst of the chemo. Two more treatments, and that's the end for now. He is already easing his way back into work, and is coping well.

There will be further tests over the next few years to check if the cancer has returned. Waiting becomes our new normal, and we try to live as if we're not waiting. The kids go back to school, and I enjoy the space and silence. I begin to do more chores and start work on a talk. We plan a family holiday.

I've discovered that grief travels in three directions: past, present, and future. The trauma of what we've gone through; the struggle to accept our changed lives; fearful anticipation of what is to come. Sadness is like a backpack of rocks you carry around: you forget it for a while, stop and enjoy the view, but always it's there, and there are days when it feels too heavy to bear.

In the dark times, when I can't feel my way, I am often surprised by the strong light of God's word. Here's the passage that has lit my way recently:

Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.

Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith, because you know that the family of believers throughout the world is undergoing the same kind of sufferings.

And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast. To him be the power for ever and ever. Amen. (1 Peter 5:7-1)

Humble yourself under God's hand. Cast your fears on him. Resist Satan's attempts to undermine your faith. Remember you're not alone. Remember this is just for a little while. Remember God will lift you up and restore you and make you strong

To God be the glory. Amen.


If you'd like regular updates on how we're going, you can "like" this page on Facebook: Pray for Steve.

All your waves and breakers have swept over me. (Psalm 42:7)

They are HIS waves, whether they break over us,
    Hiding His face in smothering spray and foam;
Or smooth and sparkling, spread a path before us,
    And to our haven bear us safely home.

They are HIS waves, whether for our sure comfort
    He walks across them, stilling all our fear;
Or to our cry there comes no aid nor answer,
    And in the lonely silence none is near.

They are HIS waves, whether we are hard-striving
    Through tempest-driven waves that never cease,
While deep to deep with turmoil loud is calling;
    Or at His word they hush themselves in peace.

They are HIS waves, whether He separates them,
    Making us walk dry ground where seas had flowed;
Or lets tumultuous breakers surge about us,
    Rushing unchecked across our only road.

They are HIS waves, and He directs us through them;
    So He has promised, so His love will do.
Keeping and leading, guiding and upholding,
    To His sure harbor, He will bring us through.

- Annie Johnson Flint

my times are in your hands

"My times are in your hands" (Psalm 31:5) - two days in a row we received this verse in a card in the mail.

A wonderful reminder that it is God who ordains and numbers our days (Psalm 139:6; Job 14:5) - not, ultimately, illness or health professionals.

Jesus said, "Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?" (Luke 12:25) - an encouragement against health anxiety.

Our times are in his hands.

what I'm reading: when all other lights go out

I remember it so clearly. I lay on my front across Steve's hospital bed, and he sat in a chair by a window with a view of a brick wall. A nurse stuck her head round the curtains and said, "You look relaxed, like you're on holiday or something!".

We weren't. We'd just found out what kind of cancer Steve has, and I was reading to him from Tim Keller's Walking with God through pain and suffering.

I haven't been able to read much the last 3 months. But I recently picked up Keller's book again. He explores three aspects of suffering - philosophy, theology, and experience - and suggests you begin with the section most relevant to your circumstances, then go back and read the others.

I started with the section on philosophy and culture (before Steve got ill), skipped to the bit on experience (after we found out Steve has cancer), and am now reading the chapters on theology. The philosophy is fascinating and intellectually satisfying; the theology (so far) sound and clear; the section on experience, deeply encouraging.

It's a rich, wise, nourishing book. I recommend it highly. And it's full of quotable quotes, some by Keller, some collected from others. Here's one that sums up our year so far:

This is a dark world. There are many ways we keep that darkness at bay, but we cannot do it forever. Eventually the lights of our lives - love, health, home, work - will begin to go out. ... The Bible says that Jesus is the light of the world. If you know you are in his love, and that nothing can snatch you out of his hand, and that he is taking you to God's house and God's future - then he can be a light for you in dark places when all other lights go out. (123-124)

 Here's one that gives me hope:

At some point, for all eternity, there will be no more unmerited suffering: this present darkness, "the age of evil", will eventually be remembered as a brief flicker at the beginning of human history. Every evil done by the wicked to the innocent will have been avenged, and every tear will have been wiped away. (Peter van Inwagen, quoted p. 117)

And, finally, here's one on the "why" of suffering and the cross:

We do not know the reason God allows evil and suffering to continue, or why it is so random, but now at least we know what the reason is not. It cannot be that he does not love us. It cannot be that he does not care. He is so committed to our ultimate happiness that he was willing to plunge into the greatest depths of suffering himself.  He understand us, he has been there, and he assures us that he has a plan to eventually wipe away every tear. Someone might say, "But that's only half an answer to the question "Why?". Yes, but it is the half we need. (121)

I guess you can see why I love this book so much.

to be a soldier

A wonderful Charles Spurgeon quote sent to me by a friend:

Dear believer, do you understand that God may take away your comforts and privileges in order to make you a stronger Christian? Do you see why the Lord always trains His soldiers not by allowing them to lie on beds of ease but by calling them to difficult marches and service?

He makes them wade through streams, swim across rivers, climb steep mountains, and walk many long marches carrying heavy backpacks of sorrow. This is how He develops soldiers—not by dressing them up in fine uniforms to strut at the gates of the barracks or to appear as handsome gentlemen to those who are strolling through the park.

No, God knows that soldiers can only be made in battle and are not developed in times of peace. We may be able to grow the raw materials of which soldiers are made, but turning them into true warriors requires the education brought about by the smell of gunpowder and by fighting in the midst of flying bullets and exploding bombs, not by living through pleasant and peaceful times.

So, dear Christian, could this account for your situation? Is the Lord uncovering your gifts and causing them to grow? Is He developing in you the qualities of a soldier by shoving you into the heat of the battle? Should you not then use every gift and weapon He has given you to become a conqueror?

 Amen!

what's been happening

Hi all! You may remember I told you that Steve was sick during our bi-annual holiday. He continued to get worse after we got home. We found out two weeks ago that he has a rare cancer of the duodenum (upper small bowel).

Three weeks ago, he was admitted to hospital, and since then life has been a surreal procession of tests, waiting for results, and processing the kind of news no one wants to hear. Each piece of news was worse than the last – mass? lymphoma? adenocarcinoma? – until the day we got the good news that the scan showed no visible secondaries.

We grieved together, prayed together, wrote our wills, and told our children.

There have been many hard days: the days when we anxiously waited for results, the days we grieved the bad news, the days we began to think about what that will mean, the days I sat and watched Steve in pain and vomiting endlessly, and now, the slow days of recovery after surgery.

But the hardest day, for me, was the day of Steve’s operation.

The surgeons had no idea what they could do until they opened him up. They thought they would need to do a “whipple” – major surgery involving removal of part of the pancreas and stomach and complicated re-plumbing of the bowel. They feared they would have to do a bypass, leaving the tumour intact and rejoining the bowel around it.

I have never prayed so long and so hard in my life (I am ashamed to say that, but it’s true). I lay in bed – I had no energy to do anything else – and stared out at the rain, and prayed and prayed and prayed.

The surgeon rang at 1.24 pm with the news: they were able to do a duodectomy (removal of part of the duodenum) instead of the larger whipple. They removed the tumour successfully. There were no visible secondaries. I gave my children (all sick at home) a thumbs-up, and we gave thanks to God.

Now Steve is recovering from major surgery, which means nausea and weakness and mental disorientation and pain. I’ve spent most of the last three weeks by his bedside. My mother is looking after our kids, who are coping well – except for Andy, our eight-year-old, who misses his mum.

Already there has been loneliness (it is hard when the person you usually depend for comfort is so sick, at the very time when you need comfort most) and grief and fear. There have been times when I haven’t even wanted to talk to God, and other times when it has been hard to believe he loves us. I am living in the Psalms, and clinging to him as well as I can. Truly I can say that God is my refuge. “I sing in the shelter of his wings” (Psalm 63:7).

We await pathology and oncology and all the ongoing uncertainty that goes with a cancer diagnosis. Soon, we will begin to hear more about statistics and prognoses. I am praying for another 25 years with Steve. I am praying we will trust God whatever he wills for us. It is God who numbers our days, not statistics and prognoses. We are in his loving hands.

I feel afloat on an ocean of prayer. We are surrounded by people who support and help us. I have set up a Facebook page where I post daily prayer points. If you would like to pray with and for us, you can "like" this page: Pray for Steve.

memory of fallen times

To know that
evil is mortal,
that it dies with this earth,
and will fade like a smudge
into brief
memory of fallen times
– if remembered at all,

one must
first feel fast-bound
in strangler-roots,

which takes time,
and strength of all kinds,
revelation,
harm, and the death of hopes.

Then one must see evil everywhere,
and understand its power,
and fetch,
and stench;
how it sits like a toad
in a stone
inside the soul,
inside the bone.

And
fall down
swallow-holes
of terror, and fear,
and sadness,
bored out for all
who look unblinking into such things.

And run weeping to Jesus,
then flee,
then back, then flee
and back again,
until knowing
no other place to flee.

Only then,
as buds urge through hardwood,
or like brief snatches
of new breeze in spring,
know evil is mortal
and ends with this earth
in future phenomena
of dying and birth,
and will fade like smudge
into brief memory
of fallen times,
if it is remembered
at all.

- David Hastie.

what I'm reading: walking through suffering

We are facing a very hard time at the moment. I will tell you more about it another time, but please keep us in your prayers.

This morning I read these words in Tim Keller's Walking with God through pain and suffering. They were just what I needed to hear:

Suffering is something that must be walked through. We are to meet and move through suffering without shock and surprise, without denial of our sorrow and weakness, without resentment or paralyzing fear, yet also without acquiescence or capitulation, without surrender or despair.

Adversity is like a fire that, rather than destroying you, can refine, strengthen, and beautify you, as a forge does with metal ore. The fire "tries" to destroy the metal put into the fire but only succeeds in making it more pure and beautiful. Like fire working on gold, suffering can destroy some things within us and can purify and strengthen other things.

Or not. It depends on our response. The fiery furnace does not automatically make us better. We must recognize, depend on, speak with, and believe in God while in the fire. God himself says that he will be with us, walking beside us in the fire. Knowing him personally while in our affection is the key to becoming stronger rather than weaker in it.

Tim Keller, Walking with God through pain and suffering, 226-9

book review: Invest your suffering

Every writing pastor seems to put out a book on two themes. One is marriage. Another is suffering. Judging from the prologues, the process goes something like this: they give a sermon series. It's popular (who isn't interested in these topics?). They turn the series into a book.

It can be hard to know which book on suffering to read, since there are so many. If you were to look over the recently published books on the topic, which one would you choose? I've read a fair few,* and my top pick would definitely be Paul Mallard's unassuming little book Invest Your Suffering. This book is ideal both for those preparing for suffering, and (a harder audience!) for those who are suffering.

I'd never heard of Invest Your Suffering, or of Paul Mallard, when I was asked to review it. I wasn't sure if I had time. I read one chapter in the dentist's waiting room (for me) and others between ongoing doctors' visits (for my chronically ill son). I didn't regret it. It came at a time when I needed it, and it met me in my need.

One of the things I love about Invest Your Suffering is that it doesn't aim for great things. You won't find some clever new theological perspective on suffering (thank goodness!). It's not long and exhaustive (for that, turn to Don Carson or, more recently, Tim Keller). It's readable, honest, and heart-felt. It's really just an exploration of some of the ways God's word meets us when we suffer, from the pen of a pastor long experienced in suffering.

In some ways, this book is a love story. It's about Paul Mallard's wife Edrie, who suffers from a painful and debilitating neurological condition, and the difficult stages of their journey. But it is less about their love - although that shines through the pages - than it is about God's love. Mallard states his goal here:

In the course of this book, we will engage with some of the great Bible passages that have brought light into Edrie's and my darkest moments. (p. 22)

Each chapter opens with a scene from their story and the hard questions it raised for them, then unpacks a truth about God that helped them at this time. This is not a systematic book, but a pastoral and exegetical one. As I read, I felt like I was sitting in Mallard's congregation, listening to him speak; or in his living room, talking with him and his wife.

Invest your suffering opens by inviting us to choose how we will respond to suffering. Will it make us better or bitter? Mallard says, "The right response is a deliberate and reasoned decision to trust" (p. 22), and the rest of his book is an invitation to this "reasoned trust".

The second chapter addresses how we think about our trials. Mallard shows how damaging false views of suffering can be, and how much more deeply a true understanding can help us. If you're looking for a clear, brief, biblical summary of God's sovereignty in suffering - the idea that he is the "first cause", and what that means - you'll find it here. 

Then it's into the body of the book, and the Bible passages and truths that helped Mallard and his wife. Open my copy of the book and you'll find six chapters circled on the contents page. These are the that spoke most deeply to me:

• trusting God when we can't understand his purposes
• learning to number our days
• turning to God when we run out of answers
• suffering prepares us to minister to others
• only the cross of Christ helps when we are in emotional or physical pain
• suffering moves us to long for heaven. 

I hope I've whetted your appetite for more!

When I read books, I hunt for the "gold": quotes that may help me or others. In this book, it was the sentences that made the book sparkle. Here are a few I collected along the way:

Praise God and keep taking the tablets. (p. 32)

We walk by faith, not by explanations. We don't have to understand everything God is doing in order to trust him. (p. 38)

We come to God with our broken hearts, and, without pausing, he continues to conduct the symphony of the stars while sweeping us into his arms and whispering that he loves us and that all is well. (p. 44)

God loves us and is too wise to make mistakes and too kind to cause us unnecessary pain. (p. 48)

Please don't tell me that Christians shouldn't grieve. (p. 56)

God has crushed us so that we can minister out of our pain. (p. 87)

Suffering is the best commentary on God's character, and pain is the finest exposition of his excellencies. We discover more about God's grace when we come to the end of ourselves. You will never know that God is all you need, until God is all you have. (p. 136)

When Edrie wept in the darkness and I wept with her, the Saviour was near, carrying us both on his heart and presenting us to his Father. (p. 152)

The main question we needed to ask was not 'why?' but 'how?'. How can we bring glory to God in the midst of 'attacks' which have all but robbed us of the day? (p. 156)

The book has few faults. I was a little alienated by some of the language (that we can "choose to overcome" and "triumph in the midst" of our pain - although Mallard, if anyone, has a right to say this) and by a couple of the chapters (on giving thanks, and on the benefits of suffering - they felt a little glib to me). Yet the vast majority of the book was sympathetic, sensitive, and open about the agonising questions aroused by suffering.

Here's a typical passage that is worth the price of the book alone:

There was one truth that, for me, stood head and shoulders above the others. It was the fact of the love of God demonstrated in the sacrifice of his Son at Calvary. I lived in the Gospels, and particularly John's Gospel. I read it on my knees. I prayed it. I preached it. As I did these things, Jesus became more and more precious for me. Looking at his love and the suffering he experienced for me helped me to look beyond the apparent meaninglessness of our suffering to see that, at the heart of the Godhead, is a Saviour who knows and feels and sympathizes with our suffering. (p. 149)

Would I recommend this book to those who suffer? Definitely. Not many books are helpful and readable when you're in the furnace. But Mallard's honesty about his pain and doubt, his clarity of thought, and his pastor's heart, make this a good choice for someone who is suffering. By the end you will feel like you have traveled with this godly man and his wife on their hard journey, and drunk deeply with them of the life-giving water of God's word.


* I recently began, and am thoroughly enjoying, Tim Keller's new book, Walking with God through Pain and Suffering. Highly recommended.