I raced home to tell you about my friend, Elizabeth Yasdani.  Perhaps you know her by her exuberant smile.  Perhaps you know about her because of her battle with “Stage 12” cancer (I believe that’s what she’s called it).  Usually when I am visiting someone with cancer, I go in hopes of being some sort of comfort to them.  That is a very legitimate desire.  Doesn’t the Bible say something about weeping with those who weep?

But that just isn’t the case whenever I visit Beth.  Instead of weeping and burden-bearing, I find myself laughing hysterically alongside her, and am far more light-hearted than I was when I knocked on her door.  Visiting with her is medicine.

Today, on top of the ordinary woes of cancer, she was having some bowel problems.  She is on Lasix to level off the fluid retention in her stomach which makes her look like she’s 6 or 7 months into carrying a child.  She rose out of her chair for the third time in a half-hour or so, this time to empty out more than fluid.  I followed her to the bathroom (just in case she felt teetery).  Her bathroom is just beyond the kitchen sink, so I figured I’d kill some time and knock out the few dirty dishes left in the sink.

I began to pray over my sweet friend who was making violent retching noises from the other side of the door (bare with the graphic details. They’re part of the story).   It sounded excruciating, and I know she already deals with enough pain to level a giant.  Suddenly I hear Beth’s sweet voice saying “Oh, praise God!  Thank You, Jesus!  Hallelulah!”  She’s praising Him… between retching sounds!  I couldn’t believe it.  I thought to myself, “This is not an isolated event.  This is an engrained habit of praise.”

When she exited the bathroom, I tucked Beth into bed knowing she needed rest more than for me to stay any longer.  I kissed her forehead and told her how much it meant to me to hear her “Hallelujahs” from the other side of the bathroom door.  How glad I was that I had done her dishes so I could eavesdrop on her praising God from the middle of her pit.  “Can I write about you?”  I asked.  I wanted to tell her story.  I wanted others to hear the echoing “hallelujahs” of a beloved, suffering saint.

Sometimes I think of myself as a “story steward”, observing those unable to leave their houses due to pain and suffering.  I suppose some people have louder voices and get to tell the story of the quiet ones.  The humble ones.  I am the loud-mouth telling the stories of the humble.  Sometimes it’s not because of pain and isolation that their voice isn’t amplified.  Sometimes the stories I steward are of meek people with quiet voices but the richest of souls, and I am the fortunate observing admirer.  I cup my ear to listen and watch, mostly because I am in awe of the beauty that resides in the crevices of their lives, the places most people don’t have the privilege of seeing. Today I had the privilege of seeing, and it made me long to tell the whole world, who will never meet my friend Elizabeth, just how wonderful she is doing at praising God from the pit.  She is like lampposts along a forested path on a moonless night, showing us the way to joy!