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Tale as Old as Time: The Truth About Transgenderism
By Lisa*
My 37-year-old married brother with five children under the age of nine sent me an email a few months ago announcing his plans to become a woman. His wife is encouraging him to transition.
Gender dysphoria used to be right next to schizophrenia in the DSM-V (the diagnostic manual used by psychiatrists). This makes a lot of sense given that my brother is currently claiming a woman lives inside his body. In order to let her out, he must not only wear dresses, heels, and makeup, he must also begin taking female hormones to transform his body into that of a female.
True Self
What troubles me even more than my brother’s decline in mental health is that countless people around him have decided to simply “love and support” him on his “journey.” If he were claiming that he believed an alien or a time traveler lived inside his body, they might not be so supportive. But because it is 2019 and the denial of reality when it comes to gender is culturally en vogue, people are going along with it. They’re terrified of being called intolerant. They say things like, “If he tells us that she is his ‘true self,’ who are we to argue?”
Ah yes . . . the “true self,” a mantra of a generation. No matter where you go, you can’t escape it. Books, television shows, Instagram captions, and Internet memes suggest we can all attain greater levels of health and peace through a deeper realization and expression of our “true self.”
Back in the day there was something called moral realism, a worldview that put an emphasis on human sin and weakness. Biblical figures like David and Moses were seen as great leaders who were also deeply flawed. Augustine and the early church fathers talked about the depravity of sin and the need for grace. Then around the 18th century moral realism found its rival in moral romanticism. Romantics like Jean-Jacques Rousseau started talking about the inherent goodness of man.
Fast forward to 1946 when Rabbi Liebman published his book Peace of Mind. The book urged people toward a new morality based on the idea that you should never repress any part of yourself as sinful. Instead you should “love yourself” and be unafraid of your hidden impulses. The book became a New York Times best seller for 58 weeks. Humanist psychologists ran with it, arguing that the primary problem for humans was no longer sin, but rather the fact that we weren’t accepting ourselves exactly as God made us. This line of thinking led to the advent of the self-esteem movement in 1969. The core of that movement morphed into what author Charles Taylor calls “the culture of authenticity.”
The central belief of the culture of authenticity is this:
At the center of every one of us is a Golden Figure known as “the true self.” The true self can always be trusted. You know that what you’re doing is right when you feel an inner peace (or shalom) inside your true self. You know what you’re doing is wrong if you do not feel that peace.
Because the true self is inherently good, there is no sin to be found in it. Sin is now found only in the external structures of society that seek to repress the true self.
In his book The Road to Character, David Brooks explains that older generations believed the development of character came by struggling against the desires of the true self. Traits like selflessness and self-sacrifice were considered most admirable. Younger generations, in contrast, believe the most admirable trait to be radical self-expression.
Thus, the steps to the “new salvation” being promoted by younger generations include
- relinquishing any previous struggle you had against your true self,
- letting your true self fully emerge without guilt or shame (both of which are constructs of old, outdated religious systems),
- adopting a new vocabulary in which words like “sin” and “evil” now refer to the external structures of society that caused you to doubt your true self in the first place. (The new “evils” are organized religion and any system of thought that seeks to oppress the weak or marginalized, such as poverty, racism, misogyny, or anything that’s anti-LGBTQ.)
Yet 19th century British philosopher John Stuart Mill said the point of life was to struggle every day to “sacrifice the true self on the altar of care and concern for others.” This is done by achieving a series of small, inner victories against our own desires because you know that acting upon them could result in negative consequences for others. Even if acting on our impulses doesn’t feel like it’s doing any harm in the moment, it could be adversely affecting countless generations to come. Thus, we build character by a thousand selfless acts of restraint that no one ever sees.
But in 21st century America, this line of thinking doesn’t compute. We don’t applaud people for restraint; we applaud people for throwing off restraint. Hence the hundreds of Instagram followers now giving my brother a “heart” for announcing he’s a woman.
The logical problem with this is that if a man is to be “supported and celebrated” as he embarks on his journey to become a woman, shouldn’t everyone be celebrated as they continue down the path toward their true self? Shouldn’t the married woman be encouraged when she reconnects with her true self in the arms of another man? Our culture would say yes, and books written about this have become best sellers.
If we do away with the concept of a sin nature and concede that everyone is inherently good, there is really no impulse that needs to be fought against. Ever. The porn addict may as well explore his addiction. The alcoholic and heroin user too. And what about the pedophile? What do we do with the man who says his true self has been attracted to small children from the time he hit puberty?
My brother and sister-in-law would agree that we shouldn’t condone any behavior that would “cause harm to others.” They’d argue that the trans person is not harming anyone by switching genders. So let’s consider that argument. Would my brother, who has been a man for more than three decades, suddenly becoming a woman really not be harmful to anyone?
I suppose that depends on your definition of harmful. Is it harmful to disrupt the mental, emotional, and physical health of everyone in your family, both immediate and extended, for months and likely years to come? Is it harmful to raise five small children in a state of psychological confusion in which the person that they thought was one thing is now another, one in which their parents morph from a heterosexual couple to a homosexual couple right before their eyes? Is it harmful for a husband who promised to love and cherish his female wife to abandon all responsibilities as the man she thought she married? Is it harmful for a father of five to commit a slow form of suicide as he begins to disappear and a new creature (complete with a different name) takes his place?
My tall, handsome, muscular brother began taking strong female hormones that transformed him into a different person. His facial hair stopped growing. He grew breasts instead. As part of his “social transition” he began wearing dresses, wigs, heels, and makeup in public. He will have to stay on female hormones until the day he dies. He refuses to answer to his former name, Josh. He says Josh is dead. There was even some type of symbolic “burial ceremony” to say goodbye to Josh once and for all. Unfortunately, I didn’t get invited to that. Nor did my parents. No one sent us flowers. No one dropped off a casserole.
The best way to describe what happens when a loved one decides to swap genders is this: it’s as though someone murders your loved one, and then the murderer gets extremely angry if you won’t let them take the victim’s place in your family.
And if we really believe that supporting people on their journey to their “true self” is best, what do you suppose our society is going to look like a decade from now?
Well, the number of “otherkin” (people who identify themselves as half-human, half other species) is growing. A man named John who identifies himself as a fox is now requesting special legal rights that will accommodate his needs as an animal. Surprisingly (or maybe not so surprisingly), a significant percentage of “otherkin” also identify as transgender. Thus, the argument is easily made that if you support transgender rights, you have to support otherkin rights. After all, who are we to say what someone’s true self might really be? And just like transgender individuals, many otherkin are now having surgery to look more and more like the animal or entity they identify with.
If you can legally change the biological sex on your driver’s license, logic says you must be allowed to legally change any other trait you like because YOU and you alone know your true identity. This is how we end up with Martina Big and Michael Eurwen from Germany. The couple has undergone many rounds of Melanotan injections, a synthetic hormone that makes the skin darker. Why? Because although reality would tell us that they are both Caucasian, they personally identify as being African.
If you Google Martina Big, you will notice she does not appear to be well. Apart from Martina’s attempts to become black, she has also had 23 breast implants (she’s now a size 32 S). Should people continue going along with Martina’s delusions because only she can know her true self? Or should people try to get Martina the mental health help she obviously needs? I ask the same question of those in my brother’s circle of friends.
Profiting from Transgenderism
Instead of helping him get real help, people continue to “support him” as he moves deeper into his delusion. This includes many well-meaning therapists. But why would a therapist tell a man who has had a history of cross-dressing to take that compulsion to its furthest extreme by transforming his body into that of a woman? Because there’s big money driving trans medicine.
After trans medical research concluded in Europe in the early 2000s, doctors from those clinics flooded into the U.S. knowing they could make a financial killing by peddling a new “treatment” for the psychiatric problem of gender dysphoria. (If you haven’t studied the history of trans medicine, Google Paul McHugh, the doctor from Johns Hopkins who was in charge of the first sex reassignment surgery program in the U.S.).
Once you study the history of trans medicine, you’ll discover that any dissenters of the practice were systematically silenced. This includes respected Ivy League professors and doctors like McHugh, who said that going along with a patient’s delusion was far more harmful than helpful. What began as two clinics (one on either coast) that recommended people with gender dysphoria move further into their fantasies by taking cross-sex hormones has now expanded into 50 clinics across the U.S., all of which are collecting massive insurance payouts.
Read Part 2 of this article here.
*The author of this true account, a wife and mother, wishes to remain anonymous. Names in this account have been changed.
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 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 Cheryl, 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.
Por Valerie Warren, según lo narrado a Hannah Bemis
Me dijeron que iba a morir.
No de una forma ambigua, al estilo de que «algún día todos morirán». Un médico me miró a los ojos y me dijo: «No me has oído. Te vas a morir». Se suponía que me quedaban once meses de vida. Eso fue en 2022. Hoy, sigo aquí y estoy más convencida que nunca de que los milagros son reales.
Todo comenzó en julio de ese año. Estaba trabajando en nuestra finca cuando me di cuenta de que me sentía muy cansada, más cansada que nunca. Le dije a mi marido: «Algo no está bien; creo que tengo que ir al médico cuando volvamos a la ciudad.».
En la consulta del médico me hicieron análisis de sangre y me dijeron que me llamarían si había algún resultado alarmante. Todo fue muy casual hasta que me llamaron mientras conducía de vuelta a casa para decirme que tenía que ir inmediatamente a un servicio de urgencias.
Valerie y su esposo Tony (centro), y sus hijos Heath, Lorissa, Hope y Victoria (de izquierda a derecha)
En pocas palabras, mi hígado estaba «obstruido» y nada podía moverse. Me hospitalizaron para colocarme una endoprótesis en el conducto biliar y abrirlo. Durante la intervención, el médico observó una mancha en el páncreas. El 22 de julio me dijeron que tenía cáncer de páncreas. La «mancha» resultó ser un tumor en la cabeza del páncreas, lo bastante grande como para comprimir toda la zona e impedir que fluyera nada.
—No me has oído. Te vas a morir.
Por malo que suene, me dijeron que solo estaba en la fase uno y que, con quimioterapia y la operación de Whipple, era muy probable que sobreviviera. Durante mi estancia en el hospital desarrollé una pancreatitis, por lo que, antes de darme el alta para irme a casa, me hicieron otros escáneres para confirmar que la infección había desaparecido. En uno de esos escáneres detectaron una mancha en el hígado. A la semana siguiente, la mancha había crecido y aparecieron otras nuevas. El 7 de septiembre, mi diagnóstico original de cáncer de páncreas en fase uno cambió bruscamente a cáncer de páncreas en fase cuatro.
Estaba con mi esposo y con mi mejor amiga cuando el médico nos dio la terrible noticia. «Tienes un cáncer de páncreas en fase cuatro y no tiene cura. Lo único que podemos hacer es administrarte quimioterapia paliativa». Ahora mismo te damos de uno a tres años de vida, pero la expectativa de supervivencia media es de once meses».
Por supuesto, mi esposo y mi mejor amiga estaban llorando, pero yo estaba allí sentada con los ojos secos, simplemente procesando. La doctora debió interpretarlo como un estado de shock, porque me lo repitió en términos aún más crudos: «No me has oído. Te vas a morir».
Algo cambió en mí en ese momento. Solo puedo decir que supe que podía confiar en Dios. Dirigiéndome al médico, le dije: «Le he oído, pero usted no puede darme mi fecha final. La única persona que puede decirme cuándo voy a morir es mi Señor».
Continué con mis tratamientos paliativos hasta finales de 2023. Durante ese año, la ayuda de mi comunidad de fe fue increíble. Grupos de mujeres de la iglesia local, la Biblia Abierta, la iglesia de las Cascadas, me traían cestas de regalo, venían a visitarme para simplemente sentarse conmigo o ver una película, o venían a orar.
Sus esfuerzos me conmovieron de verdad. Lo notable es que mi familia ni siquiera asistía a la Iglesia de las Cascadas; habíamos ido una temporada antes, pero la habíamos dejado por un tiempo. A pesar de ello, la gente de allí fue un apoyo constante. No pasó mucho tiempo antes de que mi marido y yo tomáramos la decisión de volver, sabiendo que esta era realmente nuestra iglesia.
«¿Por qué no pides un milagro?»
De hecho, el punto de inflexión en mi historia con el cáncer fue un retiro de mujeres de la Iglesia de las Cascadas. Un miércoles por la noche de octubre de 2023, estaba orando para prepararme para el retiro. Oraba lo de siempre: «Señor, confío en ti, haz conmigo lo que quieras, pero úsame». Solo que, esta vez el Señor me interrumpió:
No tenía una respuesta. Había estado repitiendo una y otra vez que confiaba en Él y me apresuraba a pedir un milagro para los demás, pero no había formulado esa petición para mí. Esa noche, en la cama, puse las manos sobre mi vientre y dije simplemente: «Señor, te pido ese milagro ahora mismo. ¿Querrás extirparme el cáncer? ¿Puedo simplemente vivir?».
Al día siguiente tenía programada una tomografía computarizada antes de ir al retiro de damas, pero la cita no salió como estaba previsto. Los técnicos no pudieron acceder a mis venas, así que me dijeron que tendríamos que cambiar la cita. Mientras subía a la camioneta con mi marido, le dije: «Cariño, no se trata de una tomografía cancelada. Realmente siento que el Señor me va a sanar este fin de semana en el retiro y por eso se ha cancelado la cita». Él me mostrará pruebas de su sanación durante la tomografía reprogramada después de mi regreso».
El retiro fue increíble. La última noche estuvo saturada de oración; todos oraban por todos. Mi amiga Cheryl me abrazaba y oraba por mí, y por primera vez desde mi diagnóstico inicial, lloré y lloré, y finalmente dije en voz alta: «¡No quiero morir!».
La última mañana del retiro, algunas amigas y yo decidimos tomarnos una última foto en la playa. Mientras estábamos junto al agua, se acercó un grupo de tres mujeres de otra iglesia que también asistía al retiro. No las conocía, pero querían decirme que, durante el tiempo de oración de la tarde anterior, habían visto una luz que me rodeaba.
«Estabas literalmente resplandeciente», me dijeron. Mis amigas respondieron contándoles mi historia y, tras ello, todas ellas volvieron a orar por mí. Me quedé asombrada de cómo aquellas mujeres habían descrito mi resplandor. Mirando hacia atrás, a menudo me pregunto: «¿Fue ese el momento, Dios? ¿Es ese el momento en que me sanaste?».
El miércoles siguiente a mi regreso me hicieron la tomografía reprogramada. Primero me enviaron los resultados por correo electrónico a través de MyChart (un historial médico en línea). Cuando los leí, me pareció que no había cáncer. Bajé corriendo donde estaba mi hija y le dije: «Victoria, lee esto, ¿qué crees que significa?».
Ella lo leyó y dijo: «¡Parece que no hay nada!».
«De acuerdo», le dije, «no te emociones demasiado porque no soy médico y podría estar pasando algo por alto». Llamé a mi esposo y le dije: «¡Creo que se ha ido!». Iba conduciendo y tuvo que parar porque no podía parar de llorar. Los dos llorábamos, pero yo insistía: «No nos emocionemos demasiado. Mañana tenemos que ir al médico».
Al día siguiente, nuestra cita con el médico resultó ser, extrañamente, muy rutinaria. «Sí, tus cifras están muy bien. Seguiremos con lo que estamos haciendo», dijo.
Yo le contesté: «Espere un momento, ¿podría echarle un vistazo a mi último escáner? Porque, si no me equivoco, parece que ya no ven nada». Sacó mi historial y, después de mirarlo, dijo: «Dios mío. Tienes razón… dicen que ahí no hay nada».
Tal vez se pregunten cómo el médico no se dio cuenta de esto sin que se lo señalara, pero ¿acaso no pasamos por alto con frecuencia lo que no buscamos? La verdad es que estaba convencido de que me iba a morir. Ahora, cuando hablo con los médicos, me dicen que no esperaban que sobreviviera más de seis meses. Echaban un vistazo a mis escáneres y veían lo que esperaban ver: «Sí, todavía lo tiene». No veían el escáner que decía que el cáncer había desaparecido porque el cáncer de páncreas en fase cuatro no desaparece. Excepto esta vez sí lo hizo.
…porque el cáncer de páncreas en fase cuatro no desaparece. Excepto esta vez sí lo hizo.
Tras comprobar que mi escáner no se había confundido con el de otra persona, mi equipo médico me envió a buscar una segunda opinión al MD Anderson Cancer Center de Texas. Tras escanearme con sus equipos de alta tecnología, los especialistas confirmaron que estaba limpia. El cáncer había desaparecido por completo. Eso fue en enero de 2024.
Desde entonces, me he sometido a exploraciones cada tres meses y sigo sin tener cáncer. Ojalá pudiera grabar las conversaciones que mantengo con los médicos. No pueden entenderlo. «Todo esto es nuevo para mí», me dicen, «no sé muy bien qué hacer a partir de ahora».
Nadie esperaba que sobreviviera y, sin embargo, aquí estoy. He sido capaz de compartir mi testimonio con cientos de personas a través de las redes sociales, de mi negocio y en un reciente evento de mujeres. Lo más valioso de todo esto es que pude guiar al Señor a una amiga y a mi suegra.
A quienes se enfrentan a una situación o diagnóstico imposible, solo quiero decirles que confíen en Aquel que los creó. No se centren en la situación, sino en el Señor. En Jesús tenemos esperanza, y Dios puede hacer lo imposible. Él utilizará su historia, pase lo que pase. Confíe en Aquel que le creó.
Sobre la autora
Valerie Warren ha vivido toda su vida en el centro de Oregón y actualmente reside en la hermosa ciudad de Bend, donde es miembro activo de la Iglesia de las Cascadas. Ella y su esposo, Tony, llevan casi treinta y un años casados y juntos tienen tres hijas, un yerno y un nieto al que adoran.
Valerie trabaja a media jornada con su marido y dirige su propio negocio, que considera una plataforma para establecer relaciones significativas con mujeres y dar testimonio de su fe en Jesús. Su mayor alegría es pasar tiempo de calidad con su familia y amigos.
When my children were young, God asked me if I trusted Him with their testimonies. Having worked as a church counselor, I wish my immediate answer was “Of course, Lord!” But instead, my most honest answer was “No! I see what you do with people’s testimonies!” I knew that to have a testimony of God’s work in their lives, people had to first go through pain and turmoil. Allowing my children the pain necessary for a testimony was one of my biggest fears. It wasn’t until nearly fifteen years later that I was able to humbly change my answer.
I can recount hundreds of stories of God’s faithfulness to bring beauty from ashes as He promises in Isaiah: “To bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair” (61:3). That’s easily the most rewarding part of working for Jesus (whether in my role as counselor, disciple-maker, or friend). When someone has experienced healing from their trauma, restoration in a relationship, or forgiveness for themselves and others, I have taken a front row seat to the beauty of a testimony rising out of the ashes of life’s pain. These are the stories I keep tucked away in my heart for building hope when it seems all hope is lost. When life’s hardships make it easier to identify with Job’s despair than with Paul’s rejoicing, I need those stories of redemption to give me hope – to give others hope.
We try throwing scripture at pain from a distance, bandaging gaping wounds with platitudes.
It was when I had to find some hope to offer my daughter as she faced a devastating mental health diagnosis that my theology and mental health practice had a head-on collision in my very own home. God lovingly asked me again, as He has throughout the years, if I trusted Him with my children’s testimonies. I would be lying if I said my answer didn’t require both deep digging and anguished prayer. My hope was only in Him; I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that God didn’t bring her this disease or its pain. That was part of the fall of man and its effects on creation – an enemy scheme. God didn’t promise my daughter wouldn’t face pain, but He did promise that when life brought it, He would use it for her good. He will shine His light in her darkness, use her healing to repair the breaches in others’ lives – all for His glory. I can finally wholeheartedly say that I do trust God with her testimony.
It is in these dark and scary places that the church often misses the mark. We aren’t well-equipped to bear one another’s burdens. We subconsciously worry that the dark places in others might consume us too. We try throwing scripture at pain from a distance, bandaging gaping wounds with platitudes. Burdens can’t be carried from an emotional distance.
Remember the places where the church has best served you in your brokenness. I think you will find that it was in relationship, when someone sat with you in your pain, either in silence or humbly asking questions rather than preaching or talking about their own unresolved pain. The only time Job’s comforters were doing a good job is when they sat silently in the ash heap with him. Sometimes being a silent witness in other’s suffering is the most sacred thing you can do. This simply cannot be done in the few minutes of an altar call or from an emotional distance. It’s not until we’ve proven we are driven by love and grace, without an agenda for behavioral change, that we will be trusted with the most imprisoning parts of a person’s story.
It’s not until we’ve proven we are driven by love and grace, without an agenda for behavioral change, that we will be trusted with the most imprisoning parts of a person’s story.
I’ll let you in on a secret: you don’t have to be the pastor or church counselor to help people walk in emotional and spiritual health. Most of the counseling I’ve done has been discipleship – teaching people the ”how-to’s” of the Bible: how to forgive, how to not be anxious for anything, how to break the power of lust, how to guard your heart in very practical, boots-on-the-ground ways. And yet, if you don’t understand how to apply biblical principles to your own emotional health, you won’t be comfortable in the dark and scary places of others’ struggles. Matthew Henry’s commentary on Galatians 6 says it well: “The better we know our own hearts and ways, the less shall we despise others, and the more be disposed to help them under infirmities and afflictions.” If you aren’t sure how to help others in their pain, being a silent, praying witness is a great place to start. In that silent place, collect the promises of God from scripture. Get to know His character and His love for His people. When you yourself can trust God’s unfailing goodness, you will be able to pass it on to others. Isaiah and Ephesians are great places to start this treasure hunt.
We need to become a people that know how to get our hands dirty and apply the mud of scripture to the eyes of each other’s hearts in a way that invites restoration. We need to know where to find the keys that set the prisoners free. As individuals and as church bodies, we can help others apply the “how to’s” of scripture. I LOVE when churches teach Financial Peace along with praying for financial breakthrough. I LOVE when churches have recovery programs that walk spiritual captives through steps of freedom. I LOVE when churches teach boundaries and healthy relationship skills. I LOVE when churches have connections with community health programs that treat the whole triune person: mind, spirit, and body. I don’t believe medication minimizes one’s faith; oftentimes, it gives a person the boost they need to come to the starting line of the race we’re all trying to run for the kingdom. It can be a necessary tool in applying scripture to their lives.
We all know that hurt people hurt people, but what’s even more powerful is the mustard seed growth of watching healed people heal people. A person who has learned to apply the gospel of Jesus to their own dark and scary places is the person who is best able to shine His light for another. When it comes to the integration of mental health and spiritual health in the Church, that is the aspect which excites me more than anything.
About the Author
Anne Beem
Anne Beem is a Eugene Bible College alumnus living outside of San Antonio, Texas, with her husband Chuck and their three daughters. She has spent much of her counseling career starting counseling ministries in churches and consulting with pastors in providing soul care to their church members. She is currently an adjunct psychology professor at George Fox University and provides counseling services to ministers and their family members. Anne’s favorite hobbies include friend collecting, traveling, and reading all of the books.
