A friend texted me today. She’s early in her own cancer journey. I did a check-in text to see how she is doing. She was honest in the way that only someone in the thick of it can be:
“Honestly, not great. You are so upbeat and positive… did you ever cry? Feel alone? I’m so tired and discouraged, grieving the change and look of my body. Check up last week landed me back in the hospital for two days of IV antibiotics and surgery. Infection. Reconstruction put on hold. Chemo on hold til healed. I’m definitely in a stronghold of self-pity and hibernation at the moment. But it’s just a few days in the middle of many. This too shall pass.”
I read that and felt every word of it. Because yes — I cried. I did long, quiet walks where I said nothing to anybody. The setbacks are the hardest part.
When I started treatment, they told me I’d have between four and eight chemo treatments. In my mind, I’d have six at most. At the second treatment, I got the news it would be eight. I was crushed. That’s how it goes in the process — nothing ever seems to get shortened. You go in hoping for good news, and something more is added. That’s why I wasn’t even prepared when my last infusion turned out to actually be my last infusion and I got to Ring the Bell — I didn’t want to get excited and find out they were adding three more rounds.
My feet burn like crazy right now from the oral chemo. Since I’m still on that, I’m still tired. I can’t look at myself in the mirror without a headband or hat because I hate my hair. It is so ridiculously curly.
After I responded to her, I reached out to other cancer survivors and asked, what else can I say to her?
One friend: “This is just a short season in your story — have the pity party — then pick yourself up and charge on. Reconstruction can wait, focus on your health now. This will change your body and mind — just go with it — lean on those that have been there and charge on.”
Another friend: “Every journey is so different. One constant is the faith and belief that we can do the hard things. Attitude is the majority of this fight. With that being said… it’s absolutely okay to not be okay. Embrace every emotion as it comes. Own it. Wallow if she needs to. Just don’t stay there. I would give myself one day or one night to feel all the things and cry and feel sorry for myself. Knowing that tomorrow is another day” — she added, “in my best Scarlett O’Hara voice” — “and I just couldn’t stay there. Then we moved on until the next moment of crisis.”
That’s what hit me. Nobody quoted a Bible verse. Nobody gave a speech. They just said: I’ve been there. You’re not alone. Keep going. Which, if you think about it, is exactly what God told Elijah.
Elijah’s Pity Party
If you don’t know the story, Elijah had just had the single greatest day of his career. He’d gone head-to-head with 450 prophets of Baal on Mount Carmel — and won. God showed up with fire from heaven. It was undeniable. The crowd turned. The false prophets were defeated. It was a total, complete, no-question-about-it victory.
And then Queen Jezebel sent him a text. Okay, it was a messenger, but same energy. She said: You’re dead by tomorrow.
And what did Elijah — the guy who’d just watched God light up a soaking-wet altar — do?
He panicked. He ran. He went a full day’s journey into the wilderness, sat down under a broom bush, and threw himself the most dramatic pity party in scripture:
“I have had enough, Lord. Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors.”
— 1 Kings 19:4
One day after witnessing a miracle, Elijah wanted to quit. He was exhausted, afraid, and completely alone. Sound familiar?
Two Meals and a Nap
Here’s what I love about this story. God didn’t lecture him. God didn’t say, “Elijah, did you forget what I did yesterday?” He didn’t quote scripture at him or give him a pep talk.
He let him sleep.
Then an angel showed up with freshly baked bread and a jar of water. Elijah ate, drank, and went back to sleep. The angel came back a second time: “Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.”
Two meals. A good night’s rest. That was God’s prescription for one of the worst pity parties in history.
I think about my teenage daughter when I read this. When she’s melting down, convinced she’s starving and there is nothing to eat in a fully stocked kitchen, and the world is basically ending — she doesn’t need a lecture. She doesn’t need me to point out the leftovers in the fridge. She’s not actually hangry. She’s exhausted. She needs to go to bed. And in the morning, everything looks different.
Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is take a nap.
“What Are You Doing Here?”
But God didn’t leave Elijah under that broom bush forever. After the rest and the meals, God asked him a direct question:
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”
— 1 Kings 19:9
And Elijah launched into his sob story: “I have been very zealous for the Lord God Almighty. The Israelites have rejected your covenant, torn down your altars, and put your prophets to death with the sword. I am the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me too.”
I’m the only one left. Nobody else is fighting. Nobody else understands.
God’s response? He corrected Elijah’s math. There were actually 7,000 others who hadn’t given up. Seven thousand. Elijah wasn’t even close to alone — he just couldn’t see them from under his broom bush.
Then God gave him something powerful: a new assignment. Go back. Anoint the next king. Train your replacement, Elisha. In other words — your story isn’t over. Get up. There’s more to do.
The Permission and the Push
Here’s what I want my friend to hear. Here’s what I want anyone in the middle of something hard to hear:
The pity party is allowed. It’s human. God himself made space for it — he didn’t scold Elijah for collapsing, he fed him. Rest is not weakness. Grief is not failure. Crying in your car or hating your reflection or wanting to hibernate for a week does not mean you’ve lost your faith. It means you’re tired. And being tired is not a sin.
But the pity party has a closing time.
At some point, God shows up with that gentle, firm question: What are you doing here? Not to shame you. To remind you that you’re not done yet. That there are 7,000 people you can’t see who are fighting too. That your setback is not your ending.
My friend wrote something at the end of her text that was better theology than she probably realized: “It’s just a few days in the middle of many. This too shall pass.”
She’s right. The pity party is just a few days in the middle of many. Have the party. Feel what you feel. Eat the bread. Take the nap.
And then, when you’re ready — get up. There’s more to do.
My Prayer
Lord, thank you for not scolding us when we collapse. Thank you for bread and rest and the grace to fall apart. But thank you, too, for the question that pulls us back — What are you doing here? — and for the reminder that we are never the only ones left. Give us the courage to get back up, even when our feet are burning and our reflection doesn’t look like us anymore. Amen.
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