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La verdad sobre el transgénero Parte 2
Por Lisa*
En el libro Cuando Harry vino a ser Sally (When Harry Became Sally), Ryan Anderson explica que cuando los investigadores siguieron a personas que se sometieron a una cirugía de reasignación de sexo durante 30 años en Suecia (una cultura que apoya fuertemente a las personas transgénero), encontraron que aquellos que habían tenido la cirugía todavía luchaban con graves disturbios mentales. La tasa de suicidio de aquellos que se sometieron a cirugía aumentó a 20 veces la de sus pares comparables. Concluyó que la transición al género opuesto no produce la felicidad que la gente busca. Tal vez esto se deba a que sus problemas son mucho más profundos.
Más de 100 estudios de seguimiento de transexuales postoperatorios fueron realizados por la Universidad de Birmingham. Se llegó a la conclusión de que ninguno de esos estudios aportaba pruebas de que la reasignación de género fuera beneficiosa. La administración Obama llegó a la misma conclusión en 2016. Un estudio de los Centros Obama para Medicare y Medicaid señaló una probabilidad 19 veces mayor de muerte por suicidio en individuos que se sometieron a una cirugía de reasignación de sexo. Los Centros de Servicios de Medicare y Medicaid concluyeron que, sobre la base de una revisión exhaustiva de los estudios clínicos, no había suficiente evidencia para demostrar que la cirugía de reasignación de sexo beneficiaba a sus pacientes en absoluto. Esta es la razón por la que el seguro no lo ha cubierto . . . hasta ahora.
Consecuencias de las reasignaciones de sexo
Decirle a una persona confundida de género que debe hacer la transición es como decirle a un bulímico, “Sí, sé que sólo tienes 80 libras y desperdicias, pero como todavía piensas que estás gorda, supongo que dejarte operar con “bypass” gástrico no podría afectar si te ayudará a sentirte más delgada”.
Jamie Shupe, la primera persona en obtener una clasificación sexual “no binaria” en Estados Unidos, tiene mucho que decir sobre los males de la medicina transgénero. Después de participar en ella durante seis años, dice que lo dejó con una “psique eternamente cicatrizada” y una serie de problemas de salud. Convencido de que fue una mujer durante una crisis de salud mental en 2013, el terapeuta de Jamie le recomendó comenzar con los bloqueadores de estrógeno y testosterona. Jamie dice: “Creía que usar una peluca larga, vestidos, tacones y maquillaje me convertiría en una mujer. Lo mejor que podría haber pasado habría sido que alguien ordenara terapia intensiva que me hubiera protegido de mi inclinación a la vestimenta cruzada. En cambio, los inconscientes de la comunidad médica dijeron: ‘Tu identidad de género es femenina'”.
Cuando Jamie comenzó el proceso de transición, los médicos y terapeutas le dijeron que pronto experimentaría un impulso positivo en la salud mental. “Fue justo lo contrario”, dice. “Desestabilizaba mi salud mental porque vivía en una falsa realidad. Estaba luchando contra mi cuerpo . . . Entiendo perfectamente por qué esto mata a la gente y por qué hay una tasa de suicidio tan alta . . . Es el programa en sí lo que nos está matando”.
Jamie más tarde salió de la transición y actualmente habla en contra de la medicina transgénero. Ahora admite: “Toda mi confusión sexual estaba en mi cabeza. Deberían haberme tratado. En cambio, en cada paso, los médicos, jueces y grupos de defensa consentirían mi ficción …”
Cuando Jamie comenzó el proceso de transición, los médicos y terapeutas le dijeron que pronto experimentaría un impulso positivo en la salud mental. “Fue justo lo contrario”, dice. “Desestabilizaba mi salud mental porque vivía en una falsa realidad. Estaba luchando contra mi cuerpo . . . Entiendo perfectamente por qué esto mata a la gente y por qué hay una tasa de suicidio tan alta . . . Es el programa en sí lo que nos está matando”.
Jamie Shupe
Al igual que los llamados expertos cambiaron el lenguaje en torno a la adicción a absolver a las personas de responsabilidad personal, ahora se está haciendo lo mismo en el ámbito transgénero. Así como ya no es políticamente correcto decir que un drogadicto toma una decisión tomando drogas (en su lugar tienen una enfermedad), ya no podemos llamar a los hombres que se visten como mujeres “travestis” porque implica que tienen una opción en cuanto a si se visten o no. Las nuevas demandas de vocabulario las referimos como transgénero en su lugar. Porque si alguien es “transgénero”, no es su culpa si usa vestimenta del otro sexo. Después de todo, nacieron dentro del cuerpo equivocado.
El campo de la medicina transgénero estará expuesto en las próximas décadas. Los mejores profesionales médicos creen que algún día miraremos hacia atrás y diremos: “¿Recuerdas que cuando en lugar de tratar la causa raíz de una enfermedad mental, alentamos a la persona a profundizar en su delirio?” Con el tiempo, echaremos un vistazo a los tratamientos hormonales y a la cirugía de reasignación de sexo de la misma manera que lo hacemos con las lobotomías de antaño.
Promoción de los estereotipos de género
Pero hasta ese día tenemos una ola de hombres que buscan convertirse en mujeres y viceversa a pesar de que no hay manera posible de que un hombre sepa lo que es ser una mujer. Esta es la razón por la que iconos feministas como Germaine Greer finalmente se pronuncian en contra de la ideología transgénero. El transgénero refuerza todo contra lo que han pasado toda su vida luchando. Promueve viejos estereotipos de género anticuados (ser mujer significa ponerse una falda y tacones). Un grupo de feministas radicales recientemente tuvo sus cuentas de Twitter suspendidas por promover la “transfobia” porque estaban tuiteando cosas como “Un hombre no puede ser una mujer”. Este tipo de charla se considera ahora un discurso de odio en nuestro país.
Veremos cada vez más de esta censura en los próximos años (por ejemplo, la jugadora de fútbol Jaelene Hinkle, a quien no se le permitió jugar en el equipo estadounidense en la Copa del Mundo simplemente porque se negó a usar una camiseta de orgullo LGBTQ).
Nuestra sociedad no tiene un problema con un hombre cuyo temperamento es más “femenino”. Ser sensible, intuitivo, amistoso, cariñoso, artístico y gentil a pesar de que usted es biológicamente masculino se consideran buenas cualidades para la mayoría de las mujeres. A mí, me han acusado de tener muchas cualidades “masculinas” a lo largo de mi vida. Soy directa, no tengo miedo de la confrontación. Prefiero ver fútbol que asistir a una fiesta de bebé cualquier día. Me especialicé en justicia penal. Trabajé con pandillas en Chicago. Nada de mis intereses personales o experiencias de vida se considera clásicamente “femenino”. Pero el hecho de que una persona tenga cualidades observadas tradicionalmente en el género opuesto no significa que deban convertirse en ese género.
Ninguna mujer empoderada aceptaría la ideología transgénero de ninguna forma. Es un insulto a las mujeres de todo el mundo sugerir que debido a que alguien se pone una falda y cuñas, automáticamente lo convierte en una mujer. Las mujeres no somos nuestra ropa o zapatos. No somos nuestro cabello o maquillaje. Cualquier mujer de verdad lo sabe. La belleza externa no tiene nada que ver con ser mujer. Para mi hermano pensar que ponerse un vestido, peluca y maquillaje de alguna manera lo hace igual que yo es quizás el mayor insulto de todos los tiempos. Ha pasado 36 años de su vida como hombre. No sabe nada de lo que es ser una mujer americana en el siglo XXI. Y nunca lo hará.
Un grupo de feministas radicales recientemente tuvo sus cuentas de Twitter suspendidas por promover la “transfobia” porque estaban tuiteando cosas como “Un hombre no puede ser una mujer”. Este tipo de charla se considera ahora un discurso de odio en nuestro país.
Como mencioné antes, los terapeutas históricamente veían el travestismo como una compulsión para aliviar la ansiedad, que es bastante fácil de entender. La gente hace todo tipo de cosas para aliviar la ansiedad. Beben. Comen demasiado azúcar. Desperdician dinero en billetes de lotería. Fuman hierba. Se autolesionan. Pero cualquier persona sana sabe que nunca debemos tomar una compulsión que se utiliza para aliviar el dolor más profundo y empezar a celebrarlo como nuestra identidad.
Ahora las niñas de tan solo tres años a las que les gustan los deportes y los camiones están siendo contadas por médicos (y madres famosas como Charlize Theron) que son un niño atrapado en el cuerpo de una niña. Luego se ponen hormonas poderosas que terminan la reproducción para detener el inicio de la pubertad. Los adolescentes están teniendo cirugías que mutilan simplemente porque están en cosas que tradicionalmente están asociadas con el género opuesto. Sin embargo, la falta de conformidad con el género es lo que decenas de personas lucharon durante décadas. Las niñas deben ser capaces de hacer cualquier cosa que los niños puedan hacer hoy y en esta edad y viceversa. Pero ahora tenemos hombres transgéneros rompiendo récords en la categoría atlética de una chica tras otra.
¿Dónde está el pueblo de la fe?
¿Y dónde están los llamados “gente de fe” en esta locura? Corriendo asustados. No queremos que nos etiqueten como ignorantes. No queremos que nos llamen intolerantes. Sabemos que ser considerado transfóbico puede rápidamente caer en otros adjetivos como misógino o racista.
El mensaje de la comunidad cristiana con respecto a las cuestiones LGBTQ parece ser este: sólo tenemos que mostrar el amor de Cristo a todos aceptándolos exactamente como son. Y es verdad. Todo el mundo tiene algo con lo que están luchando, y nadie está exento. Pero nadie debe ser amado como es y luego dejado de esa manera. De ahí las últimas palabras de Cristo a la mujer en el pozo: “Vete y no peques más.”
Si el amor significa apoyar los esfuerzos de alguien sin importar lo que sea, ¿no deberíamos todos llevar a nuestros amigos alcohólicos al bar esta noche? El amor verdadero significa decir la verdad, incluso cuando no es culturalmente agradable.
Y aunque no debería tener que deletrear esto, lo haré. Simplemente no estar de acuerdo con alguien en un tema no significa que usted tiene miedo o no le gustan todas las personas que están en el otro lado del problema. Creo que el transgénero está mal. Eso no me hace transfóbico. Creo que las mayores víctimas de la ideología transgénero son las personas a las que se les ha dado la etiqueta transgénero ellos mismos.
Llamar a todos los que no apoyan los derechos LGBTQ transfóbicos u “homofóbicos” es increíblemente ignorante. Nunca debemos burlarnos o acosar en ninguna manera a las personas transgénero. Ya están lidiando lo suficiente como es; necesitan nuestra ayuda.
Mi hermano dirá que el género es sólo una pequeña parte de lo que es. Pero para él pensar que “seguirá siendo él mismo” incluso si es una mujer es una tontería. Ya no será un hombre llamado Josh. Será una falsa caricatura de una persona que está pidiendo que todos a su alrededor nieguen la realidad diciéndole que es algo que no es. Por supuesto que conservará su personalidad, sus mismos gustos y aversiones. Pero decir que el género de uno no importa en última instancia en el gran esquema de las cosas muestra lo profunda que es la confusión. No me habría casado con mi marido si no fuera hombre. Y como mujer casada, no saldría a almorzar sola con mis amigas si no fueran mujeres.
A pesar de lo que mi hermano y mi cuñada harían creer a todos, la verdad es esta: el género importa. Como dijo el Papa recientemente: “El género es sagrado”. Los principales obispos y cardenales han declarado inequívocamente que el movimiento transgénero es demoníaco.
Cualquier buen experto en marcas sabe que las organizaciones eligen sus logotipos con mucho pensamiento y cuidado. Así que sí, hay una razón por la que la Iglesia de Satanás eligió a Baphomet (la cabra mitad macho/mitad femenina) para ser su logotipo. La cabra nos recuerda que supuestamente somos los que tomamos la última decisión sobre nuestra vida aquí en la tierra. Somos los diseñadores de nuestro destino. Y aunque los deseos de Dios para nosotros (como el sexo biológico) son todos buenos, al final es el verdadero yo cuyos deseos debemos seguir. ¿Realmente Dios dijo, “Tienes que ser hombre”?
Es una historia tan antigua como el tiempo.
*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.
