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Cuento tan viejo como el tiempo: La verdad sobre el transgénero
Por Lisa*
Mi hermano casado de 37 años con cinco hijos menores de nueve años me envió un correo electrónico hace unos meses anunciando sus planes de convertirse en mujer. Su esposa lo está animando a la transición.
La disforia de género solía estar justo al lado de la esquizofrenia en el DSM-V (el manual de diagnóstico utilizado por los psiquiatras). Esto tiene mucho sentido dado que mi hermano está reclamando que una mujer vive dentro de su cuerpo. Con el fin de dejarla salir, no sólo debe usar vestidos, tacones, y maquillaje, también debe comenzar a tomar hormonas femeninas para transformar su cuerpo en el de una mujer.
El verdadero yo
Lo que me preocupa aún más que el declive de mi hermano en salud mental es que innumerables personas a su alrededor han decidido simplemente “amarlo y apoyarlo” en su “viaje”. Si él estaba afirmando que él creía que un extranjero o un viajero del tiempo vivía dentro de su cuerpo, podrían no ser tan de apoyo. Pero debido a que es 2019 y la negación de la realidad cuando se trata de género es culturalmente de moda, la gente va con él. Están aterrorizados de que los llamen intolerantes. Dicen cosas como: “Si él nos dice que ella es su ‘verdadero yo’, ¿quiénes somos nosotros para discutir”?
Ah, sí… el “verdadero yo”, un mantra de una generación. No importa adónde vayas, no puedes escapar de él. Libros, programas de televisión, subtítulos de Instagram y memes de Internet sugieren que todos podemos alcanzar mayores niveles de salud y paz a través de una comprensión más profunda y la expresión de nuestro “verdadero yo”.
En la época había algo llamado realismo moral, una cosmovisión que enfatizaba el pecado humano y la debilidad. Figuras bíblicas como David y Moisés fueron vistas como grandes líderes que también estaban profundamente viciados. Agustín y los primeros padres de la iglesia hablaron sobre la depravación del pecado y la necesidad de gracia. Entonces alrededor del siglo XVIII el realismo moral encontró a su rival en el romanticismo moral. Románticos como Jean-Jacques Rousseau empezaron a hablar de la bondad inherente del hombre.
Avance rápido a 1946 cuando el rabino Liebman publicó su libro Paz de la mente. El libro instó a las personas hacia una nueva moralidad basada en la idea de que nunca debes reprimir ninguna parte de ti mismo como pecador. En su lugar, debes “amarte” y no tener miedo de tus impulsos ocultos. El libro se convirtió en un best seller del New York Times durante 58 semanas. Los psicólogos humanistas corrieron con él, argumentando que el problema principal para los seres humanos ya no era el pecado, sino más bien el hecho de que no estábamos aceptando exactamente como Dios nos hizo. Esta línea de pensamiento condujo al advenimiento del movimiento de autoestima en 1969. El núcleo de ese movimiento se transformó en lo que el autor Charles Taylor llama “la cultura de la autenticidad”.
La creencia central de la cultura de la autenticidad es la siguiente:
En el centro de cada uno de nosotros hay una Figura Dorada conocida como “el verdadero yo”. Siempre se puede confiar en el verdadero yo. Sabes que lo que estás haciendo es correcto cuando sientes una paz interior (o shalom) dentro de tu verdadero yo. Sabes que lo que estás haciendo está mal si no sientes esa paz.
Debido a que el verdadero yo es inherentemente bueno, no hay pecado que se encuentre en él. El pecado ahora se encuentra sólo en las estructuras externas de la sociedad que buscan reprimir el verdadero yo.
En su libro ‘El camino a carácter’, David Brooks explica que las generaciones mayores creían que el desarrollo del carácter venía luchando contra los deseos del verdadero yo. Rasgos como el desinterés y el sacrificio se consideraban más admirables. Las generaciones más jóvenes, en cambio, creen que el rasgo más admirable es la autoexpresión radical.
Por lo tanto, los pasos hacia la “nueva salvación” que promueven las generaciones más jóvenes incluyen
- renunciar a cualquier lucha anterior que haya tenido contra su verdadero yo,
- dejar que su verdadero yo emerja plenamente sin culpa o vergüenza (ambos son construcciones de sistemas religiosos antiguos y obsoletos),
- • adoptar un nuevo vocabulario en el que palabras como “pecado” y “mal” ahora se refieren a las estructuras externas de la sociedad que te hicieron dudar de tu verdadero yo en primer lugar. (Los nuevos “males” son la religión organizada y cualquier sistema de pensamiento que busque oprimir a los débiles o marginados, como la pobreza, el racismo, la misoginia o cualquier cosa que sea anti-LGBTQ.)
Sin embargo, el filósofo británico del siglo XIX John Stuart Mill dijo que el punto de la vida era luchar todos los días para “sacrificar el verdadero yo en el altar del cuidado y la preocupación por los demás”. Esto se hace logrando una serie de pequeñas victorias internas contra nuestros propios deseos porque sabes que actuar sobre ellas podría resultar en consecuencias negativas para los demás. Incluso si actuar sobre nuestros impulsos no se siente como si estuviera haciendo ningún daño en el momento, podría estar afectando negativamente a innumerables generaciones venideras. Por lo tanto, construimos el carácter por mil actos desinteresados de moderación que nadie ve.
Pero en los Estados Unidos del siglo XXI, esta línea de pensamiento no computa. No aplaudimos a la gente por moderación; aplaudimos a la gente por tirar la moderación. De ahí que los cientos de seguidores de Instagram ahora le den a mi hermano un “corazón” para el anunciado que es una mujer.
El problema lógico con esto es que si un hombre ha de ser “apoyado y celebrado” mientras se embarca en su viaje para convertirse en mujer, ¿no se debe celebrar a todos mientras continúan por el camino hacia su verdadero yo? ¿No debería alentarse a la mujer casada cuando se vuelve a conectar con su verdadero yo en los brazos de otro hombre? Nuestra cultura diría que sí, y los libros escritos sobre esto se han convertido en best sellers.
Si eliminamos el concepto de naturaleza del pecado y reconocemos que todo el mundo es intrínsecamente bueno, realmente no hay impulso contra el que se deba luchar. Nunca. El adicto al porno también puede explorar su adicción. El alcohólico y el usuario de heroína también. ¿Y qué hay del pedófilo? ¿Qué hacemos con el hombre que dice que su verdadero yo se ha sentido atraído por los niños pequeños desde que llegó a la pubertad?
Mi hermano y mi cuñada estarían de acuerdo en que no deberíamos tolerar ningún comportamiento que “causara daño a los demás”. Argumentarían que la persona trans no está dañando a nadie cambiando de género. Así que vamos a considerar ese argumento. ¿Mi hermano, que ha sido hombre durante más de tres décadas, convertirse repentinamente en mujer no sería realmente perjudicial para nadie?
Supongo que eso depende de tu definición de dañino. ¿Es perjudicial interrumpir la salud mental, emocional y física de todos los miembros de tu familia, tanto inmediatos como extendidos, durante meses y probablemente años por venir? ¿Es perjudicial criar a cinco niños pequeños en un estado de confusión psicológica en el que la persona que pensaban que era una cosa es ahora otra, una en la que sus padres se transforman de una pareja heterosexual a una pareja homosexual justo delante de sus ojos? ¿Es perjudicial para un esposo que prometió amar y apreciar a su esposa abandonar todas las responsabilidades como el hombre que pensaba que se casó? ¿Es perjudicial para un padre de cinco años cometer una forma lenta de suicidio cuando comienza a desaparecer y una nueva criatura (completa con un nombre diferente) toma su lugar?
Mi hermano alto, guapo y musculoso comenzó a tomar hormonas femeninas fuertes que lo transformaron en una persona diferente. Su vello facial dejó de crecer. En su lugar, creció pechos. Como parte de su “transición social” comenzó a usar vestidos, pelucas, tacones y maquillaje en público. Tendrá que permanecer con hormonas femeninas hasta el día en que muera. Se niega a responder a su antiguo nombre, Josh. Dice que Josh está muerto. Incluso hubo algún tipo de “ceremonia de entierro” simbólica para despedirse de Josh de una vez por todas.
La mejor manera de describir lo que sucede cuando un ser querido decide intercambiar géneros es la siguiente: es como si alguien asesina a tu ser querido, y entonces el asesino se enoja mucho si no dejas que tomen el lugar de la víctima en tu familia.
Y si realmente creemos que apoyar a la gente en su camino hacia su “verdadero yo” es mejor, ¿cómo crees que nuestra sociedad se verá como una década a partir de ahora?
Bueno, el número de “otros parientes” (personas que se identifican como mitad humanas, mitad de otras especies) está creciendo. Un hombre llamado John que se identifica como un zorro ahora está solicitando derechos legales especiales que se adaptarán a sus necesidades como animal. Sorprendentemente (o tal vez no tan sorprendentemente), un porcentaje significativo de “otros parientes” también identifican como. Por lo tanto, el argumento se hace fácilmente de que, si usted apoya los derechos de las personas transgéneras, usted tiene que apoyar otros derechos de la familia. Después de todo, ¿quiénes somos nosotros para decir cuál es el verdadero yo de alguien? Y al igual que los individuos transgéneros, muchos otros parientes ahora están teniendo cirugía para parecerse cada vez más al animal o entidad con el que se identifican.
Si usted puede cambiar legalmente el sexo biológico en su licencia de conducir, lógica dice que se le debe permitir cambiar legalmente cualquier otro rasgo que te gusta porque USTED y usted solo conocen su verdadera identidad. Así es como terminamos con Martina Big y Michael Eurwen de Alemania. La pareja ha sido sometida a muchas rondas de inyecciones de Melanotan, una hormona sintética que hace que la piel sea más oscura. ¿por qué? Porque, aunque la realidad nos diría que ambos son caucásicos, se identifican personalmente como africanos.
Si Google Martina Big, te darás cuenta de que no parece estar bien. Aparte de los intentos de Martina de volverse negra, también ha tenido 23 implantes mamarios (ahora tiene una talla 32 S). ¿Debería la gente seguir con los delirios de Martina porque sólo ella puede conocer su verdadero yo? ¿O la gente debería tratar de conseguirle a Martina la ayuda de salud mental que obviamente necesita? Hago la misma pregunta a los del círculo de amigos de mi hermano.
Aprovechando el transgénero
En lugar de ayudarlo a obtener ayuda real, la gente continúa “apoyándolo” a medida que se adentra en su delirio. Esto incluye a muchos terapeutas bien intencionados. Pero ¿por qué un terapeuta le diría a un hombre que ha tenido una historia de travestismo que lleve esa compulsión a su extremo más lejano transformando su cuerpo en el de una mujer? Porque hay mucho dinero conduciendo medicinas trans.
Después de que la investigación médica trans concluyó en Europa a principios de la década de 2000, los médicos de esas clínicas se inundaron en los Estados Unidos sabiendo que podían hacer una matanza financiera vendiendo un nuevo “tratamiento” para el problema psiquiátrico de la disforia de género. (Si no has estudiado la historia de la medicina trans, Google Paul McHugh, el médico de Johns Hopkins que estuvo a cargo del primer programa de cirugía de reasignación de sexo en los Estados Unidos.)
Una vez que estudies la historia de la medicina trans, descubrirás que cualquier disidente de la práctica fue silenciado sistemáticamente. Esto incluye a respetados profesores y médicos de la Ivy League como McHugh, quienes dijeron que ir de la manera de un paciente era mucho más dañino que útil. Lo que comenzó como dos clínicas (una en cualquiera de las costas) que recomendó a las personas con disforia de género avanzar más en sus fantasías tomando hormonas entre sexos ahora se ha expandido a 50 clínicas en los EE.UU., todos los cuales están cobrando pagos masivos de seguros.
(Esté atento a nuestro número de marzo para leer la Parte 2 de este artículo.)
*El autor de este verdadero relato, una esposa y una madre, desea permanecer en el anonimato. Se han cambiado los nombres de esta cuenta.
“Babe, I think we need to steal Christmas.” I said this to my wife, Kelley, as we were driving back from a family celebration. Without any further explanation, she knew I meant that the atmosphere of our family gatherings had left a lot to be desired. It wasn’t that they were bad; in fact, they were fun and filled with love, but we both sensed that commercialism had taken over and God wanted more for us; He was highlighting these family gatherings as spaces where He wanted to be on display.
I continued processing with Kelley: “…On second thought, changing Christmas might be too much for our families to handle, but I think we could probably take over next year’s Thanksgiving celebration. If we start planting the seeds now, then in ten years no one will notice that little by little we’ve taken over planning the big gatherings—until Christmas is just handed to us!”
… it was in this moment that Thanksgiving was reborn for our family.
Kelley looked at me skeptically. Okay, so maybe my plan to steal Christmas was a little ambitious and made me sound like a Pixar villain, but it was in this moment that Thanksgiving was reborn for our family. We brainstormed, we got excited, and Kelley helped wrangle us under God’s wisdom. As we prayed, God showed us a whole new way to gather at the table.
First, the table needed to be extended, both literally and metaphorically. We wanted to combine both sides of our family under one roof (can you say high risk?). Everyone was welcome, and we made sure to personally invite those without family or community. Kelley and I are part of a ministry that focuses on underserved neighborhoods in Toledo, Ohio. There is no shortage of people here who need to be connected to God’s love and see His family in action on days that remind them of trauma, hardship, and pain (including holidays).
Second, old traditions had to die for new ones to be born. Bye-bye, TV trays and football games; hello, giant thankfulness tree. Transparently, it was at this point that I was a little concerned; we were taking on generations of tradition, and I still wasn’t sure how to put God on display like He wanted to be. That was when He showed us the big one: The Food. Goodbye, turkey, mashed potatoes, and green bean casserole.
A new tradition was born. Instead of the traditional Thanksgiving meal, we picked a foreign culture and tried our hand at making their traditional dishes, desserts, and drinks. We adopted their games, played their music, and decorated our home with their colors. It was a huge risk, and it was a hit!
As we prayed, God showed us a whole new way to gather at the table.
After several years of these reinvented Thanksgivings, both our family and neighbors are fully on board. Each year, everyone at the table votes on the next cultural cuisine, and now, eight years in, Thanksgiving has become a highlight tradition. People dress up, experiment with exotic dishes, invite friends, and—most importantly—shower one another with love. Some years the gathering has grown so large we’ve even had to find a new venue.
Our “thankfulness tree,” built by Kelley, has become the centerpiece of the gathering. Each person writes down what they’re grateful for, shares it, and adds their leaf. And year after year we’ve saved them, creating a beautiful archive of gratitude. Neighbors without family have joined us too, finding a place to share thanks, receive prayer, and encounter God’s love through new traditions. Along the way, we’ve cooked some unforgettable meals, and one of my favorite moments has been watching people set aside hesitation to try something new when the familiar comforts aren’t on the table. That kind of openness has sparked amazing conversations about God, suffering, love, and family.
God has been on full display, His table extended, His traditions for us established, and His love something I am truly thankful for.
(Oh, and did we just so happen to host Christmas at our house last year? You betcha.)
About the Author
Corey Bern resides in the often overlooked rustbelt city of Toledo, Ohio, where he savors beautiful moments with his daughter, Liberty, and beautiful wife, Kelley. Corey serves as associate pastor of Washington Church as well as director of The Lewis House, an inner-city ministry that partners with Open Bible Churches. When he isn’t walking alongside others on their journey to the Father’s heart, he’s often hidden away in the world’s coolest under-the-stairs office with a good book—or helping Liberty baptize Barbies.
“Your father’s kidney is no longer functioning in your body, but twenty-one years is a good run. You need to start dialysis.”
That wasn’t the deal I had made with the Lord. When I received my kidney transplant from my dad, he was the perfect match. I was fourteen years old and had been sick for too long; I wanted to be a normal kid. I had been born with kidney disease, and doctors had no hope for me. They had transferred that hopelessness to my parents. My dad reminds me all the time how he questioned God: “Was it my sins or my wife’s sins that brought on this disease?”
God clearly answered him the way Jesus replied in John 9:3: “It was not because of his sins or his parents’ sins,” Jesus answered. “This happened so the power of God could be seen in him.” I found it interesting that the one who asked (my dad) was the one who gave. His gift of a kidney lasted twenty-one years, which was a miracle in itself. The average kidney transplant lasts twelve to fifteen years. While twenty-one years was a miracle, I wasn’t satisfied: my father’s kidney was supposed to last until God called me home. God was supposed to heal me.
On February 17, 2022, I sat in a dialysis chair for the first time in twenty-one years, overwhelmed by fear of what lay ahead. A doctor and social worker assured me their goal was to get me a new kidney quickly. Their confidence comforted me; I believed God had placed me in a facility where things would move smoothly and quickly.
After nine months of hearing nothing, a new social worker finally told me I was on the UCSF transplant list. I’ll never forget it—my husband said it was the best wedding anniversary gift. We were thrilled, believing we were one step closer to a new kidney. But on December 30, everything changed. The social worker told me I was not on the list after all and needed to call UCSF to check on my application status.
I wasn’t satisfied: my father’s kidney was supposed to last until God called me home. God was supposed to heal me.
What had felt like a glimmer of hope was gone in just a few weeks, and I was crushed. On January 3, 2023, I called UCSF, and the woman who answered was kind and encouraging, saying, “Let’s make sure we get you a kidney. You’re too young to be going through this.”
I met with doctors, nurses, and the transplant team over Zoom to assess if I was mentally and physically ready for a transplant. They informed me the wait for a kidney could be five to nine years, and when the meeting was over, I still had no assurance of a place on the transplant list. With that news, my strength started to wear thin, but I kept praying, trusting that somehow God would help me through whatever lay ahead.
In His strength, I returned to teaching with a smile, determined to make the most of the next five to nine years as I poured into my second graders and their future. As the worship pastor at Life Church in Concord, California, I encouraged others not to lose confidence in God, even when things felt out of control.
In June 2023, I attended the Open Bible National Convention in Texas on the very days I normally had dialysis. I went against medical advice, not realizing how much God had in store. The conference began on Tuesday, and I felt unusually tired and heavy-hearted. I wondered, “What if this is it? What if the deal I made with God was to keep going for the next five to nine years, and then He would take me home?”
That night, I shared those thoughts with my husband. I wasn’t giving up, I was simply accepting what I thought was God’s plan. I reminded him that despite all our prayers, my mom and his mom had both gone home to be with Jesus. I was learning that life is precious, but we don’t always get the answer we hope for. Still, I wasn’t defeated; I was fighting my way forward, bearing the bruises and scars of a warrior.
The next morning, a group of women prayed over me, asking God to release a miracle and heal me from needing dialysis. Their prayer stirred my spirit, though my body still felt weary. That night during worship as “Firm Foundation” played, tears streamed down my face. My spirit believed God wouldn’t fail, but my body felt the weight of exhaustion and the marks of treatment.
I heard God say clearly, … “I’m hitting the reset button. Get ready.”
After the service, I saw Tirsa, a missionary from Nicaragua who had visited our church when I was young. She knew my mom, and that connection meant everything. She prayed boldly for a miracle, that I would no longer need dialysis. I felt in my spirit that I needed to be prayed for by Angie Sissel, one of my spiritual mothers. As I waited for her, my eyes kept being drawn to the green circle in that year’s conference theme. I heard God say clearly, “I’m hitting the reset button.” I asked if He meant my kidneys, but He simply repeated, “I’m hitting the reset button. Get ready.”
When “Momma Angie” prayed over me, her husband, Pastor Derek Sissel, shared a word from the Lord. He looked me in the eyes and said, “God’s not done with you. There’s still fire inside you. Stop thinking He’s finished.” Tears ran down my face. He had no way of knowing what I’d said in private the night before, but God had heard me. I called my husband that night and told him everything.
Thursday brought a surprise. During our free time, my husband told me to answer the unknown number that had been calling because it might be the hospital. When I finally answered, it was the transplant team. They told me a kidney might be available the next day. I explained I was in Texas, but they said it was fine, I was second in line. If the person ahead of me wasn’t a match, the kidney would be mine.
All day, I kept my phone close. During the Convention’s evening reception, they called again, not to confirm the kidney yet, but to make sure I was still reachable. I stayed on edge, waiting.
Friday morning, we flew home. As soon as we landed and were driving home, the call came: “Mrs. Wolfe? The kidney is yours. Please be at the hospital by 4:30 p.m. for your final dialysis treatment, then head to UCSF.”
I jumped up and down in my seat, telling everyone in the van, “My kidney is on its way!” I called my husband, and he told his boss, “I need to go get my wife; she’s getting her kidney today!”
On June 17, 2023, I received my transplant—a gift I know came straight from the Lord. It all happened so fast I didn’t have time to question the fact that it came from someone who had passed. I later learned it came from a young person. I know their family must have experienced immense pain, but I am deeply grateful. Because of their generosity, I have life again. I can teach, lead worship, and now preach.
After I returned home and began recovering, I received a letter from UCSF. It said I had been placed on the transplant list as of June 6, 2023, just ten days prior to the phone call that informed me I’d been given a kidney. Ten days. After losing nearly a year and a half of my life, God needed only ten days to give me a kidney. It reminded me—He’s not done with me. It was my mom’s time to go home and my mother-in-law’s too. But not mine.
Now, whenever an opportunity comes, I say yes. God gave me life—again—so He can fulfill His promises and purpose through me. If He isn’t done with my story, I know He’s not done with yours. Pray, lean in, surrender the outcome, and He will surprise you! He’s not done.
Mary Lou Wolfe is a worship pastor, preaching team lead, and second grade teacher at Life Church in Concord, California. She has been married to her husband, Chris, for twelve years and their goldendoodle, Brock, is almost two years old. She was born and raised in the Bay Area. Her dad, Ricardo, is from El Salvador and her mom, Jenny, was from Nicaragua. At the age of nine, Mary Lou and her parents moved to a Hispanic Church in Antioch, California. Templo Santo was her home church and sent her to Eugene Bible College, where she graduated in 2009. Since then, she has been in ministry, never losing her heritage and always having a heart for her people. She speaks, writes, and reads in Spanish. She is grateful that her parents taught her to hold tight to her heritage, never forgetting where she came from or where God is taking her.
By Valerie Warren, as told to Hannah Bemis
They told me I was going to die.
Not in a vague, someday-everyone-does kind of way. A doctor looked me in the eyes and said, “You did not hear me. You’re going to die.” I was supposed to have eleven months to live. That was in 2022. Today, I am still here and more certain than ever that miracles are real.
It all started in July of that year. I was working on our property when it hit me that I’d been feeling extra tired, more tired than I’d ever been. I told my husband, “Something is off; when we go back to town, I really think I need to go to the doctor.”
At my doctor’s appointment they did some bloodwork, telling me they’d give me a call if they saw anything alarming. It was all very casual until they called me while I was still driving home, telling me I needed to come to the emergency room immediately.
Valerie and husband Tony (center), and kids Heath, Lorissa, Hope, and Victoria (left to right)
In simple terms, my liver was “jammed up” and nothing could move. I was hospitalized while they put a stent in my biliary duct to open things up. It was during that procedure that the doctor saw a spot on my pancreas. On July 22, I was told I had pancreatic cancer. The “spot” turned out to be a tumor at the head of my pancreas, big enough that it was pinching off that whole area and blocking anything from flowing through.
“You did not hear me.
You’re going to die.”
As bad as that sounds, I was told it was only stage one and that with chemotherapy and Whipple surgery, I would very likely survive. While in the hospital, I had developed pancreatitis, so before releasing me to go home, they did some additional scans to confirm the infection was gone. It was on one of those scans that they noticed a spot on my liver. By the next week that spot had grown, and there were additional spots. On September 7, my original diagnosis of stage one pancreatic cancer was abruptly changed to a stage four diagnosis.
I was with my husband and my best friend when the doctor gave us the grim news. “You have stage four pancreatic cancer, and there is no cure. All we can do is give you palliative chemotherapy. As of right now we’re giving you one month to three years, but the average survival is eleven months.”
My husband and best friend were, of course, crying, but I was sitting there dry-eyed, just processing. The doctor must have interpreted this as shock because she repeated herself in even starker terms: “You did not hear me. You’re going to die.”
Something shifted in me at that moment. All I can say is that I just knew I could trust God. Focusing on the doctor, I said, “I did hear you, but you cannot give me my end date. The only person who can tell me when I’m going die is my Lord.”
I continued my palliative treatments for the remainder of 2022 and into 2023. During that year the support of my faith community was incredible. Groups of ladies from the local Open Bible church, Church of the Cascades, dropped off gift baskets, came to visit to just sit with me or watch a movie, or stopped by to pray.
Their efforts really touched me. The remarkable thing is that my family didn’t even attend Church of the Cascades; we had attended in a previous season but had left for a time. Despite this, the people there were a constant support. It wasn’t long before my husband and I made the decision to return, knowing that this was truly our church home.
“Why aren’t you asking for a miracle?”
It was actually a Church of the Cascades ladies’ retreat that became the pivot point for my cancer story. On a Wednesday night in October 2023, I was praying in preparation for the retreat. I was praying all the things I usually did, “Lord, I trust you, and whatever you want to do with me, just use me.” Only this time, the Lord interrupted me:“Why aren’t you asking for a miracle?”
I didn’t have an answer. I had been saying over and over that I trusted Him, and I was quick to ask for a miracle for others, but I hadn’t articulated that request for myself. That night in bed I laid my hands on my belly, simply saying, “Lord, I’m asking right now for that miracle. Will you remove my cancer? Can I just live?”
The next day I was scheduled to have a CT scan before heading to the ladies’ retreat, but the appointment didn’t go as planned. The technicians were unable to access my veins, so they said we’d have to reschedule. As I climbed into the truck with my husband, I said, “Babe, this isn’t about a canceled CT. I really feel like the Lord is going to heal me this weekend at the retreat and that’s why this is canceled. He’s going to show me proof of His healing during my rescheduled scan after I get back.”
The retreat was amazing. The last night was saturated in prayer; everyone was praying for everyone. I was being held and prayed for by my friend Sheryl, and for the first time since my initial diagnosis, I cried and cried, finally saying out loud, “I don’t want to die!”
On the final morning of the retreat, a few friends and I decided to take one last picture on the beach. As we were standing by the water, a group of three ladies from another church who were attending the retreat came walking up. I had never met these women, but they wanted to tell me that during the prayer time the previous evening, they had seen light surrounding me.
“You were literally glowing,” they said. My friends responded by telling these women my story, after which all of them prayed for me again. I was in awe at how those women had described the sight of me glowing. Looking back, I often wonder, “Is that the moment, God? Is that the moment when you were healing me?”
My rescheduled scan happened the Wednesday after my return. The results were emailed to me through MyChart (an online medical chart) first. As I read the results, it seemed to me like there was no cancer found. I ran downstairs to where my daughter was and said, “Victoria, read this. What do you think it means?”
She read it and said, “It sounds like there’s nothing there!”
“Right,” I said, “Don’t get too excited because I’m not a doctor and I could be missing something.” I called my husband and told him, “I think it’s gone!” He was driving and had to pull over because he was bawling. We were both crying, but I kept saying, “Let’s not get too excited. We’ve got to meet with the doctor tomorrow.”
Our appointment with the doctor the next day was strangely routine at first. “Yeah, your numbers look great. We’ll just keep doing what we’re doing,” he said.
I replied, “Wait. Hold on a sec. Can you go look at my latest scan because if I’m not mistaken, it looks like they’re not seeing anything anymore.” He pulled out my chart and after looking at it said, “Oh my gosh. You’re right…they’re saying there’s nothing there.”
You might wonder how the doctor didn’t notice this without my pointing it out, but don’t we often miss what we’re not looking for? Frankly, he was convinced I was going to die. When I talk to the doctors now, they tell me that they didn’t expect me to make it past six months. They would glance at my scans and see what they expected to see — “Yep, she’s still got it.” They didn’t see the scan saying the cancer had gone away because stage four pancreatic cancer doesn’t go away. Except this time, it did.
…stage four pancreatic cancer doesn’t go away. Except this time, it did.
After verifying that my scan hadn’t gotten mixed up with someone else’s, my medical team sent me to get a second opinion at MD Anderson Cancer Center in Texas. After the specialists there scanned me with their top-of-the-line equipment, they saw once again that, impossibly, I was clear. The cancer was all gone. That was in January of 2024.
Since that time, I’ve had scans every three months, and I am still cancer free. I wish I could record the conversations I have with the doctors each time. They can’t fathom it. “This is all new to me,” they’ll say, “I’m not sure where to go from here.”
No one expected me to live, and yet here I am. I’ve been able to share my testimony with hundreds of people through social media, through my business, and at a recent women’s event. The most precious thing to come out of all of this is that I got to lead both a friend and my mother-in-law to the Lord.
For those of you who are faced with an impossible situation or diagnosis, I just want to say, trust in the One who made you. Don’t focus on the thing; focus on the Lord. In Jesus we have hope, and God really can do the impossible. He will use your story, no matter what. Trust in the One who made you.
About the Author
Valerie Warren is a lifelong resident of Central Oregon and currently resides in beautiful Bend, where she is an active member of Church of the Cascades. She and her husband, Tony, have been married for nearly thirty-one years and together they have three daughters, a son-in-law, and a beloved grandson.
Valerie works part-time alongside her husband and runs her own business, which she sees as a platform to build meaningful relationships with women and share her faith in Jesus. Her greatest joy comes from spending quality time with her family and friends.
