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by Mac Slavo, SHTF Plan: Russian President Vladimir Putin has likened the striking capabilities of its new cutting-edge Oreshnik ballistic missiles to that of a meteorite impact. In comments to the Collective Security Treaty Organization summit in Kazakhstan, Putin said: “This is like a falling meteorite. We know from history where meteorites had fallen and what the […]

God's Word doesn't say, "You will not face trials of any kind so long as your life is filled with joy." What it tells us is that we will face trials throughout all of life, and to count it as joy, which will lead to steadfastness.

I’ve always dreaded cancer. When I’d drive past cancer clinics, I’d pray for the people inside. That dread became more personal four months ago. When I woke up from my regular colonoscopy, they wheeled me in to see my wife and she told me I had colon cancer. The surgeon came in and filled in the details. I’d need surgery, chemotherapy probably—maybe worse. The stage 3 cancer hadn’t escaped from my colon or intestines, but it had invaded the lymph nodes and pushed into my intestinal walls. I’d have to endure six months of intense chemotherapy, which started in early September. Twelve rounds, one every two weeks, each worse than the last. (I’m now in round five.) Plus, there’d be additional treatment for the eventual side effects: crashing white and red blood cell counts, bone pain, mouth sores, cold sensitivity, deep exhaustion, nausea, and more. Yet today I’m happier than I have been in many years. Why? I haven’t struggled with doubts, anger, or a sense God is treating me unfairly. I know many suffer from these thoughts. I’m not better than those people, and my profoundest sympathies are extended to them. But so far, God has spared me that. Jesus Christ has never left me. All I’ve learned of his faithfulness and love toward me over 49 years of the ups and downs, the progress and backsliding, of the Christian life is now so real to me. I’ve experienced Christ in new and beautiful ways. Anchored in a Psalm At the beginning of this nightmare, God gave me Psalm 139, making it clear this psalm was to be my anchor. It crystallized my theology, making it real to me as I suffered in this fallen world. Even though my children didn’t know about it, many of the songs they recommended to me pointed directly to this psalm. I have no doubt that God has wanted me to embrace it, to memorize it, to live it. He gave me this psalm to get me through. And he has made each part profoundly personal. The God Who Thinks of Me All I’ve learned of his faithfulness and love toward me over 49 years of the ups and downs, the progress and backsliding, of the Christian life is now so real to me. I’ve experienced Christ in new and beautiful ways. There’s not one thought, not one fear, not one doubt—in the past, present, or future—that he doesn’t know before I speak or even think it. And yet he assures me his thoughts toward me are loving, perfect, and whole (vv. 1–6, 17–18). This would strike fear in unbelievers, but they move through life unaware. For those who do believe it, for Jesus Christ’s redeemed sheep, this is profoundly comforting if we understand it aright. And for me now, though I’ve understood this theologically and doctrinally for a long time, it has become incredibly real, something I’m directly experiencing in ways I’ve never known. When I awake, he really is there, and that’s comforting. The God Who Is with Me I couldn’t flee from his presence even if I wanted to. Was waking up post-op and into the reality of the misery of surgery recovery like making my bed in Sheol? Was the grief and fear of my wife, my children, my grandchildren, and my children-in-law like descending into the pit? Have the multiple and intensifying chemo hits been to me like being in the valley of death? Yes. And yet he has been there with me. Right there. When I woke up in the purgatory of pain, it was in his presence, him there with me. There has been no place for me to hide but also no place I’ve wanted to hide—not Sheol, not heaven, not the wings of the dawn, not lightness, not darkness. Jesus Christ has been real, present, and tangible—not just as doctrine or theology but there. Suffering with me, comforting me, assuring me, his hand in mine (vv. 7–12). He didn’t take hell away from me. He went into hell with me. And that’s far, far better. The God Who Made Me He made me, fearfully and wonderfully, before the foundations of the earth (vv. 13–16). With care, intimately crafting every cell, ordaining each of my days into eternity. In a fallen world, this included those cancer cells. He put them there to accomplish his will in me, not against me. There were no surprises for him, just for me. There was no dismay or doubt or fear for him, just for me. My body, including my cancer, is what a loving God gave me—willed for me—from before time. Why should I rail against it now? My body has been good to me; it has served me; from inside it has issued precious offspring, and it has enabled me to fulfill my calling in this world, to serve others, to care for my family. My DNA, every cell, every detail was given to me by One who loves me beyond anything I can ask or even imagine. Anger has no place here. Grief? Yes. Fear? Yes. But not anger. The God Who Conquers for Me Are the pangs of death my enemies? Yes, they are. Do I hate them with profound hatred? Yes, I do. But Jesus has defeated my enemies (vv. 19–22). He has conquered death. Whether from this or something else, I will die. There’s no escaping it. But he will be present then too; he will love me then too; he will carry me then too. He will not leave my side in this cancer or in my death. Isn’t it good to be reminded of this now? If this is what it takes for me to trust him in the hour of my death, then it’s a lesson well learned. The God Who Sanctifies Me And so now he searches me, rooting out every wickedness, every unworthy action or thought (vv. 23–24). He’s using this cancer to move me along this path of sanctification. Exposing and digging out the evil inside me. And always in love, with patience and kindness and mercy, even as I’m experiencing it now. My tears are stored in his bottle (Ps. 56:8). Anger has no place here. Grief? Yes. Fear? Yes. But not anger. This work in me is woefully incomplete, but he has given me a promissory note that all will be made right in eternity: every question answered, every sin destroyed. I’ll be clean. I’ll be whole. Do I enjoy cancer? No. Has it been worth it? Absolutely yes.