Tag: cancer

A profound encounter with God

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I am thrilled to welcome Kate Nicholas back to my blog, as her new book releases. I had the privilege of reading an early version, endorsing it and also interviewing Kate at her launch event. This book is well worth getting hold of…

How do you write about an experience of God that goes beyond words? This is the challenge that I faced when writing my latest book To The Ocean Floor.

When I was first diagnosed with Stage IV breast cancer in 2014, I was given a piece of scripture from Psalm 118:17, ‘I will not die, but live and declare the works of the Lord.’ And when, against all odds, I survived I dedicated to myself to this mission. During the following seven years of glorious remission, God opened amazing doors for me as an author, broadcaster and preacher, and I began to get used to the idea that I was going to live.

Then in 2021, in the midst of the pandemic, a routine mammogram revealed that the cancer had returned with a vengeance. Within weeks of starting chemotherapy I became desperately ill, and on one of the toughest days of that journey, I sank beneath the waves of consciousness – where I had a profound encounter with God.

Recapturing that deep connection

As I recovered, I was left with a powerful yearning for that connection and as I sought to recapture the intensity of what I call my ‘ocean floor’ experience. I began to explore a contemplative practice that dates back to the dawn of Christianity, which points towards a more intuitive connection with God – the kind of connection that I had experienced in the depths.

In this new book, I recount my exploration of a meditative tradition that goes all the way back to the Apostle Paul, Desert Fathers, Celtic Christians and Medieval mystics; a tradition that has been since been developed by modern monastic spiritual masters such as Bede Griffiths and John Main.

Never alone despite isolation

One of the things that I became acutely aware of on this journey was that God was all around me. Perhaps it was because I was so isolated for much of this time (Covid and chemo-induced lack of immunity are not a great combination) that every interaction with the staff and fellow patients at my local hospital seemed charged with meaning.

On the wards, I was astounded by the wonderful staff of the NHS whose compassion, professionalism and resilience never failed to amaze me. I knew that somehow Christ was in that place, in the healing hands and the patience but also the cries of pain and fear; unseen but all pervading.

Facing death – finding God

There’s no doubt about it, the road I travelled was not easy and it brought to the very verge of death. But it has also been a time of profound discovery; an inner journey into the mystery of God and what one reviewer called ‘the richness to the be found at the border of life’s journey’.

There is an innate paradox in writing a book about an experience of God that defies description. But when the poignancy of the moment seemed to outweigh my ability to express myself, I found that the Spirit took over and words began to arrange themselves in unexpected ways; prose sometimes morphing into poetry.

While I write openly about some quite difficult experiences as I went through cancer treatment, this is ultimately a book about hope. It’s about the fact that our reality is far more mysterious and exciting than we can ever imagine and reveals a deep and profound connection with our creator.

It’s my prayer that To The Ocean Floor will provide reassurance those who have wondered where God is in the face of challenges and inspire readers to go deeper in terms of their own intuitive connection; to be still and know in the deepest core of their being that He is God.

To find out more about Kate Nicholas’ books, TV series, courses and blog visit www.katenicholas.co.uk

Taught to trust

Taken by Kate’s husband, John Vilkaitis

Today I welcome Kate Nicholas to the Unmasked: stories of authenticity series. I thoroughly enjoyed her book Sea Changed, and found her insights and courage in the midst of cancer inspirational. She shares here about the need to let go of control and trust Jesus.

For most of my life, I have been a bona fide control freak. It is a tendency honed by years of working in, and with, the media – initially as a journalist then editor-in-chief of business and current affairs magazine and global communications chief of Christian aid agency World Vision.

In the cut and thrust of the newsroom, or the midst of a humanitarian crisis, there is little room for you to be vulnerable. As a leader you have to be seen to be strong, resilient and in control, and in order to survive many develop a mask to hide the child within. My husband used to jokingly refer to the tough persona that I unwittingly developed as Kate Nicholas plc.

It also isn’t easy being a Christian in the media. All too often those with faith are dismissed as too trusting and naive to have the critical faculties necessary for serious journalism. But this view is based on a fundamental misconception about the nature of trust.

Trust isn’t a passive option.It often requires considerable courage. It is the opposite of being in control and learning to trust is sometimes incredibly challenging.

NO CHOICE BUT TO TRUST

It was the summer of 2014 when I was first diagnosed with advanced inoperable cancer that had spread around my heart. My prognosis was not good and I found myself in a situation that was completely beyond my control.

There was absolutely nothing I could do to change it. All I could do was trust that God would do what was best for me. Cancer is a great trust teacher!

From the outset, I felt that God was with me in the midst of my suffering. I had a strong impression that he was telling me to let go, to stop holding on so tightly to my life, and let him take the helm. And it was only when I finally gave in, and surrendered my control freak tendencies, that God was able to do something wonderful and transformative.

LEARNING FROM PETER

The Gospel of Matthew includes a remarkable story about trust. Matthew recounts an incident that took place on the Sea of Galilee. It was a stormy night, and the apostles were rowing through the darkness when they saw what they thought was an apparition walking towards them across the surface of the water. They were understandably afraid and cried out in terror, but then they heard a voice saying, ‘Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.’

They thought it was Jesus but couldn’t be sure so Peter replied, ‘Lord, if it’s you . . . tell me to come to you on the water.’ And when Jesus said simply, ‘Come,’ without hesitation Peter climbed out of the boat and, as the storm raged around him, stepped out in faith towards his Saviour. It is probably the greatest example of breathtaking, inspiring human trust in Scripture.

All too often we focus on the fact that, a few moments later, Peter took his eye off Christ and, looking down at the waves at his feet, began to panic and sink, but this doesn’t diminish the extraordinary trust that he initially displayed. For a moment he put his faith into action and acted on his belief.

To trust is let go of our need for control.Trust isn’t safe. It requires us to step out of our comfort zone and it severely challenges those of us who feel the need to plan every aspect of our lives (and others’) down to the last detail. Trust demands that we, like Peter, be willing to step out in faith into the unknown.

The Hebrew word for ‘to trust’ in the Old Testament is bataach, which means to have a bold, confident security, and the New Testament Greek word pisteuo means to have confidence in the thing believed. Trust requires us to take the risk of believing in that which we can’t yet see,to let go of our own inadequate and incomplete understanding of God’s plans and recognise that he is on the throne.

Living trusting in ourselves is frankly exhausting and ultimately futile, but we will find that when we are willing to truly hand over control to our creator, God will transform us in more ways than we can ever imagine.

Kate Nicholas is an author, broadcaster and consultant with 30 years’ experience working in media and communications. She preaches at the church of St Peter and St Paul, Olney where the world-famous hymn Amazing Grace was written.

Kate’s best-selling memoir Sea Changed (shortlisted Christian Biography of the Year 2017) tells the story of her unconventional journey of faith and healing from advanced cancer. Her latest book Sea Changed: A Companion Guide – Living a Transformed Lifelooks at how God uses the circumstances of our lives to transform us, as well at what the fruits of this transformation look like – including the ultimate transformation that takes place at the end of our earthly life. Her recent 12-part TV series Living a Transformed Life (which aired on TBN UK) can be viewed free on demand at www.katenicholas.co.ukor   https://www.tbnuk.org/vod/watch/living-a-transformed-life/our-god-of-transformation

Kate’s books are available at Christian bookstores and Waterstones throughout the UK and online at eden.co.uk and Amazon worldwide.

 

Kate Bowler on grief, cancer – and touch

There has been a lot of noise about Kate Bowler’s book Everything Happens for a Reason and Other Lies I’ve Loved. And rightly so. In it she is incredibly honest about what it is like to live with a cancer diagnosis. How difficult it is to go through treatment, cope with friends’ and family members’ processing, as well as receiving endless explanations from strangers about why she has cancer (she wrote an article for the New York Times).

Knowing about my Unmasked blog series, Kate’s publicist and publisher offered me the chance to share an extract of my choice from the book. It feels especially poignant to be doing this now, as just last week I lost a dear friend to cancer. I am certain that she is now fully pain-free, and with her Saviour, but for those of us who are left behind we mourn and grieve. I am so grateful for those moments that I was able to share with her in her last days. Grateful too for this book, as it taught me how important touch is – and so I remembered to reach out and give my friend a hug as I said goodbye for what turned out to be the last time. It’s also taught me that grief starts early, which I am finding in another situation I am currently experiencing.

I know cancer is a particularly emotive subject, and full of pain for many. I hope that Kate’s naked honesty, and sprinkling of humour, will help others to understand what it is really like for those with cancer – and how we can be better at supporting them even as we process the emotional pain ourselves. Over to Kate…

There must be rhythms to grief, but I do not know them.

People begin to take their turns grieving me because it can’t be done all at once. Family and friends who could not be at the hospital for my operation come to stay at the house, and we start all over at the beginning.

I sit outside, wrapped in the same blankets and taking in the sunshine, all my favorite people orbiting around me. My pastor takes out her Psalms and reads a little, gripping my hand. My mom cooks a lot, stocking the freezer with everything that is suggested to be anticancer. My older sister, Amy, sends treats and constant encouragement, while Maria, my younger sister, gives me her words when she can’t be there, sending me poems and bits of trivia from New York, where she is working as an editor for a Catholic magazine. She has two big hopes for me: one, that I will be cured; the other, that, before it is over, I will punch the nearest inconsiderate person in the face.

I have so many fears, spoken and unspoken. When I first got my job at Duke and realized that I was going to live in the United States for some time, I made a lot of loud protestations about how “I will not die in a foreign land!” I also made clear that I would not die in my office, not only because that had happened before to professors (prone, as they are, to get preoccupied by their research) but also because it seemed sad, at twenty-nine, to feel exiled to the Land of Opportunity for eternity. I think back on how I casually strategized about where I would be buried, concerned that I would never be able to reconcile all the parts of my identity. A daughter who lives far from family. A friend who spends too much time at work. A wanderer but a type A planner. I wondered if I would ever be one, whole person. But now I am not hoping for completeness of any kind. All I can think of are the logistics. One night I wake up almost every hour because my mind has seized on a horrible question: Wouldn’t it be a paperwork nightmare to move my body? To take me home?

When I teach pastors at the seminary where I work, I lecture them about the First Great Awakening and religious responses to the Civil War and how their political differences will ruin their next Thanksgiving if they don’t learn to shut their traps. But as a historian, I have never spent any time teaching them how to perform baptisms, officiate weddings, or conduct funerals. And I have certainly never told them what to say when they visit someone who is dying and how not to sit on her couch, mouth full of cookies, and ask endless questions about how cancer treatment works. I did not tell them how few of their words are needed but how much their hands are wanted, a hand on my back as I tear up, a hand on my head for a soft prayer for healing. When I feel I am fading away, these hands prop me up and make me new. When my older colleague Frank, who lost his own adult son, found his way into my hospital room, he wrapped his strong hands around mine and said, quietly: “I wore this clerical collar to impress you. And also to get through hospital security.”

Kate Bowler is an assistant professor in the school of divinity at Duke University. She lives in North Carolina with her husband and son. Currently the experimental immunology treatment she is undergoing is working, and studies suggest Kate has at least another year to live.