Editor’s Note: This story is written by Haley Bellows who was recently diagnosed with a very aggressive cancer. She is 20 years old. You can read her story HERE. To stay up to date with Haley, follow her on her blog or Twitter.

I walked in to my fourth consecutive day of chemotherapy, exhausted in every aspect. At this point of my journey, I was ready to throw in the towel.

Physically–my whole body was weak.
Mentally–my world was spinning.
Spiritually–my hope was gone.

As I walked towards my usual room, my nurse stopped me. She asked, “How would you like to join the chemo room today?”All I could imagine was what I saw on movies. A room full of old, dying people sitting in a quiet room. I was hesitant at first, but decided to give it a shot. It was better than doing this alone.

As my nurse directed me to the only seat left in the room. I felt like everyone was watching me.

I sat down and the girl next to me greeted me quickly with a huge smile and, “Welcome to the worst place on earth, but don’t be scared. We make it fun!” At first I couldn’t believe she would greet someone like that, especially since you could tell it was obviously my first time there.

Little did I know that this girl would soon change my life.

As days went on, I found out that 20-year-old Sheraya had been battling leukemia for 3 years now. She grew up in the foster care system because, when she was younger, her mom died and her dad went to prison. She had bounced around in 3 different states to several different homes before finally settling down her sophomore year of high school.

Even in that home she was not fully welcomed.

She was diagnosed with leukemia at 17 years old, but was very functioning and active. Soon after she graduated high school, she moved out because her foster parents were always fighting about the stress caused by her sickness. She didn’t want to cause that kind of stress for anyone anymore.

She made it on her own for a little while, but continued to get sicker and sicker. At almost 19, she was admitted in to the hospital.

Not only was she battling this cancer with no one but herself and the staff and residents at the hospital, she had this unexplainable strength within herself that was incomprehensible to me. Especially because she did not know the Lord!

The truth is, I related with parts of her story.

So I openly shared every bit of my life with her and she listened.

Then she asked, “How could you possibly believe that there is a ‘Heavenly Father’ who loves you when you have experienced so much suffering throughout your life?”

This is what I told her.

I believe I serve a God whose goodness doesn’t compare to anything in this lifetime. I believe that, even if I continue to be dealt a crappy hand, I serve a God who has a vision for me to be in a safe place. Even when it doesn’t feel like He is near, He has never left my side.

A few days later I went to visit her. I brought flowers and a card that I filled with my hopes for her.

Several days later I heard back from her. I received a text that said,

“Hey Haley! Sorry it has been so long since we have spoken. The nurses gave me one of those pocket Bibles. I now completely understand how you have found so much strength in Him. I wanted to thank you so much for your card and especially the little business card that had the prayer on it. But I do have one request for you. I want you to be the one that is with me when I give my life to Christ.”

The following Friday I stopped by, but she was asleep. So I held her hand, prayed over her, and left her a note.

The Tuesday following that, I decided to stop in and surprise her. I made my way in to the hospital, greeted by the faces of many doctors and nurses that I knew. I was stopped several times while making my way to her room. But when I finally got to the doorway, I completely froze.

The bed was made and the whole room was empty.

All that was left in the room was a card. Addressed to me.

I fell to the ground in tears, card in hand. A nurse we had both shared stood at the door and, with no words exchanged, embraced me in a hug. As I finally gained some composure, I read the card.

“Haley, I lay here in my bed knowing that I am probably not going to make it much longer, having our nurse write this card for you. (…) I want you to know that I asked the hospital chaplain to come help me accept Jesus in to my life on Sunday. If you are reading this, I am assuming that you came to the hospital to see me. (…) You are the one who saved me. (…)

Like I said before, you are an angel from God, sent to bring me His good news. (…)

You are the definition of a true friend and servant of Christ. I love you, friend.”

I sit here reminiscing over the tears Sheraya and I cried together, from both joy and pain.

I remember laughing with Sheraya, even more laughing than you would think. And I remember tears shared as we talked about her fear that comes with death, which was followed by tears of joy as I explained to her what it means to live eternally in Heaven.

I had only known her for a few short weeks, but every moment spent with her will be a memory that lasts a lifetime.

Most of all I am reminded that in this very painful circumstance, our Lord has made it beautiful.

Question: Has something bad happened to you that the Lord has made beautiful? Do you have any encouragement for Haley?

Editor’s Note: This story is written by staff writer Matt Appling, who blogs about church (and other things) several times a week over HERE. Do you “like” Prodigal on Facebook yet? What are you waiting for??

This room is full of complete strangers.

And most of these strangers are much older than I am.  They are wearing their best suits and dresses.  I’ve done my best to blend in.

The air is permeated with a somber feeling as many of them wipe tears from their eyes.  Except for me.  I am the only person in the room who has not shed one tear.  In fact, my emotions at the moment are not at all sad, but nervous.

It’s not that I have no emotions around death.  I’m just not feeling a personal loss for the man who is about to be eulogized.  I never met him before in my life. However, I am a little bit nervous, because I’m standing at the front of this room, with a hundred pairs of teary eyes looking at me, waiting for me to speak. I’m the guy who supposed to be giving this stranger’s eulogy.

Most people would rather be in the dead man’s place than at the speaker’s podium.

Hospital Visit

Just a few weeks before, I was in a hospital lobby, waiting to visit a sick member of our church.  Sitting across from me was a woman who could be my grandmother.

I don’t talk to strangers much, but the woman couldn’t help herself. She asked the reason for my visit, but she really wanted to tell me about her ordeal. She had spent weeks in the chair she now occupied. Her husband of many decades was dying just a few doors down the hallway. She had a lot of spark left in her. In fact, she struck me as a tough, salty kind of woman. She seemed like the kind of person who could put up a fight and get her way. But the exhaustion of the last month was carved into her face.

Her name was Bonnie.

I prayed with Bonnie, made my appointed visit and returned home. A week later, I returned to the hospital in the pouring rain. I wondered if Bonnie would still be in her chair.

She was right where I left her.

“If he dies, will you do his funeral?” she asked me.

I had never given a eulogy, much less for a man in an induced coma whom I had never met. But maybe he would pull through, and I’d be off the hook.

Telling a Dead Man’s Story

Four days later, I was definitely on the hook. John had passed away.

Contrary to what I was taught in seminary, a eulogy is not an opportunity for a three point gospel presentation.  It’s an opportunity to tell a story. And really, it’s a story that the audience already knows.

So I sat on Bonnie’s couch while she and her sister shared with me John’s story.

I was nervous that the man may not have had a story. Maybe he wasted his life in front of the television. I was actually relieved to find out that he had been an alcoholic…and even more relieved that he had been sober for twenty years, upon an ultimatum from his wife. Like I said, she had the appearance of a woman who could put up a fight and get her way.

John was not a church-going man. Alcoholics Anonymous had been his church, his confessional and his community. I asked to see John’s “Big Book,” the Bible of AA.

And there was John’s story.

The worn out book, as I had hoped, was littered with underlining, circling and highlighting.  It was a book belonging to a man who had demons to fight. The pen marks and wrinkled pages indicated the passages he relied on most.

No Copyright on Your Story

At the funeral home, I didn’t say anything those people didn’t already know. The room was full of John’s AA fellows. They bore the same scars he did. They carried him to his final resting place.

They were some of the most humble men I have ever met.

I dressed up John’s story with a little drama, a couple of jokes, and some Bible verses.  I read some highlighted passages from John’s own Big Book, and hoped it was right.

We spend our lives trying to get ahead, accomplish goals, impress people, and live well.

This is how I spend my life.

But in the end, none of us really have a copyright on our own stories. We aren’t in control of how our stories will be told. They will be told with inflections and emphases that we may not have picked. Maybe people will make more of our strengths, or our weaknesses than we’d like. Our stories won’t be the goals and life plans we so carefully laid out. Our stories will be marked with the relationships we leave behind.

Our stories will be told by the people we cared for…and maybe a twenty-five year old we never met.

Editor’s Note: Today’s post is by staff writer Tony Alicea who blogs over HERE. If you don’t already subscribe to Prodigal Magazine to get posts in your inbox or reader, what are you waiting for??? Click HERE now.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. Immediately I responded with my typical answer, “Nothing.”

But she knew it was something. Her calm, hazel eyes pierced through my disingenuous reply. We were going to have to talk about it and I wasn’t ready to go there.

Six months of marriage and she could already read me like a book. The problem was that I didn’t know exactly what was wrong. I just knew something wasn’t right.

She nudged closer to me on the couch and said, “Whatever it is, I just want you to get it out.”

But how do you bare your emotions when you’ve spent so much time training yourself to push them down? I’ve learned that it hurts to be vulnerable with my feelings, so I perfected the art of being “fine.”

I didn’t want to bother her with my thoughts or my feelings or my frustrations. I knew I would get over it. I didn’t want to come across as emotional. Guys aren’t supposed to feel so much, right? Guys are doers and women are feelers.

And so I learned to numb the pain with a simple word. Fine.

I learned to internalize my struggles and find my own ways to get through them. But the problem with marriage is that my feelings are no longer my own.

This process of becoming one means that nothing is hidden. We share joy and pain, thoughts and feelings. Everything I had learned to do quite well all on my own.

As we sat on the couch, she kept asking me questions. She gently prodded me to get this out.

We began uncovering this lie that I believed for a long time. This lie that I needed to anesthetize my feelings. This lie that kept me from sharing my burdens. This lie that men aren’t expected to be vulnerable.

It was uncomfortable. I felt naked.

I prided myself as being the one that always had it together. The one with the answers and advice and encouragement.

But now I sat there, admitting that I didn’t have it all together. Admitting that this numbness was a defense mechanism. All too aware of this new vulnerability.

And it was one of the most freeing moments of my life.

I was given permission to feel again. I was given permission to NOT be fine. I was given permission to be a teary mess.

I closed my eyes and prayed to God for help. She told me to pray it out loud. She said that it would be good to admit to God that I needed help in front of her. She told me she wasn’t afraid of it.

Confession was the first step to healing.

My words and emotions were a breached dam. All my fears, disappointments and insecurities flooded out. But as I confessed my weakness before God and my wife, the numbness yielded. The burden was lifting.

I finally was able to admit that I wasn’t fine. But as soon as I did, I knew I was going to be.

Question: How are you doing? No, really?

Editor’s Note: Today’s post is by Prodigal President Darrell Vesterfelt who is committed to helping people tell and live good stories. If you don’t already follow him on Twitter, you can do so by clicking HERE. Speaking of which, you should also follow Prodigal on Twitter.

If you read Prodigal every day, you know that we are committed to telling stories. In fact, you probably know that we believe good stories have the ability to change the world.

Here’s the thing. In order to tell a good story, first you have to be living one.

How do you do that? Good question.

The first thing a good story needs is a good character. A good character is what makes a good movie worth watching, or a good book impossible to put down. A good character is also what makes your life count for something. Think about someone you really admire, someone you want to be like. They are someone who is living as a good character in their life story.

So that begs the question: what does it take to be a good character?

Here are five ways to be a better character in your story:

1. A good character wants something greater than himself.

My friend Kevin McManus is planting a church in South Florida, for example. He moved his entire family from North Carolina, at a time that wasn’t even very convenient for him. It was the middle of summer in Florida and his wife was eight months pregnant.

You want to know why? Because he wants the people of South Florida to know Jesus.

Kevin left his big house, his good job, and his comfortable life, not because it was better for him, but because he knew his sacrifice would be meaningful.

If he had clung to the life that was most comfortable or convenient for him, he might have missed his opportunity to live a good story.

Are you embracing opportunities to live for something greater than yourself?

2. A good character is good — but not perfect — and he is okay with his imperfections.

I wrote an article a few weeks ago where I admitted that I lost control of my emotions and was really rude to a woman at my apartment complex.

It’s easy for me to be embarrassed about that story, to want to hide that part of myself, because it actually is really embarrassing that I would act that way.

We all have imperfections and those of us who hide our imperfections make really terrible characters.

The thing is, it’s only in admitting my mistake, and being transparent about it, that I become a really “likeable” character in my own story because others can relate.

What are your imperfections and are you willing to be honest about them?

3. A good character finds redemption in her suffering.

My wife told a story about something really terrible that happened to her when she was little. The thing that happened to her has caused a lot of suffering in her adult life. If you’re curious, you can read about it here.

Since she wrote the article, she has connected with girls who faced similar kinds of suffering and who, through reading the article, found the courage they needed to be honest about what they had experienced. Helping someone else climb out of the pit that she was in for so many years of her life is redemptive for her.

Not to mention, writing the article has helped her to come to new understanding about herself, and new security in her relationship with the Lord.

She’s a character who is living a good story.

4. A good character is willing to engage conflict.

Matt Appling wrote a story several weeks ago about a time that he went on a Mission trip without praying about it first, without even asking his wife. The decision he made could have potentially brought a lot of conflict, but Matt wasn’t afraid of conflict.

Good characters can’t be afraid of conflict. They have to be able to live in conviction, and make decisions out of that conviction, and willing to engage whatever conflict comes along their way.

If you’re living a good story conflict will come. Conflict is not a bad sign. It’s actually a good one.

When was the last time you bravely faced conflict?

5. A good character takes people with them in their journey.

Stories get really boring when they’re just about one person. Think about it. What would have happened in Cast Away if Tom Hanks never got off the island? His story would have lacked substance and meaning.

Our story is only as meaningful as the people who we are in relationship with.

Prodigal Magazine doesn’t matter without you — do you know that we think that? Without you sitting in your pajamas, or your cubicle, reading, commenting, submitting your stories, learning what it means to tell and live a good story, what we’re doing here loses purpose. We do what we do because of you.

We believe that stories have the ability to change the world, yes. But even more importantly we believe stories can change your life.

Prodigal can’t do that without you.

We’re invested in bringing you with us by helping you communicate the story you’re living. If you have a story that you’d like to share, feel free to submit to our Write Page or if there is anything I can do to help you live a better story, e-mail me here: d@prodigalmagazine.com.

What are other ways that you can become a better character in your story?

These are my thoughts adapted from my experience at Storyline by Donald Miller.

Editor’s Note: Today’s post is from staff writer, Krisi Johnson. If you don’t already, make sure you follow Krisi on Twitter. Also, are you already a Prodigal subscriber? If not, make sure you become one by clicking here.

My mom is not from Norway.

She just married into the clan of mid-west Lutheran farmers, and out of love and commitment to my Dad, she was determined to become an expert Lefsa maker.

So we spent hours watching the VHS “How to make Lefsa” and giggled over the plump farm wife’s little phrases and northern accent.

I can remember delicately rolling out balls of starchy dough on a white cloth taped strategically to our cutting board. Flour everywhere, sprinkled on the flat rounded pastries, sifted into my hair, and embedded into the fabric of my jeans; dad lurking just outside the kitchen, waiting to sample our fine craftsmanship.

Cooking with my mom has seduced me to into a deep love affair with food, but more specifically with how food draws people away from their individual tasks and into the arms of the kitchen.

We spent our best times together as a family around the kitchen table.

Since moving home last summer I once again found myself enjoying meals at the Johnson kitchen table. On one particular night as our bowls emptied, I began to chatter on about my great plan for life, the most notable of which is my dream of opening a youth hostel in Europe.

I enthusiastically explained how the centerpiece of the hostel would be a warm kitchen filled with weary, smelly backpackers, relaxing with steins of beer and the tone of belly laughter that can only come from outrageous travel stories.

My desire is to provide refuge, enticing friends and travelers to sit down and stay a while.

My mom listened carefully to my dream.

Then she said, “It sounds like you want to be a mom.”

Taken back and insulted, I retorted sharply that being a stay at home mom was a frivolous aspiration. But as soon as it escaped my lips I wanted to swat those scornful words out of the air. I watched as my words reached my mothers ears and saw deep hurt spread across her face.

The truth is my mom didn’t do anything wrong. The truth is she was right.

I am afraid of admitting my desire to be a wife and a mother because, on my worst days, I am certain I will never receive the love of a husband. This deception feeds my fear that matrimony and motherhood are a loss of identity and convinces me to wrongly label marriage as a greedy pig, demanding women to toss out their dreams and education.

I do long for marriage, but only in the selfish sense.

I long for the love and companionship of a man, the pleasure of sex, and the sweet joy of children—without the difficulty and commitment of marriage and motherhood.

It is much safer to hide behind the skirts of independence than dream of a wedding, a marriage and children.

I’m convinced I can take care of myself. After all, I’m doing it. But, taking care of someone else…?

There are moments when my desire to live an impressive, passport stamped life fades into the background, even if just for a minute, and a particularly vulnerable image sneaks up on me. I slip off my rings and set them on the kitchen windowsill. I twist a handle until water to pours over post-meal dishes. Bright sunshine and breeze sneak in though the open window.

It’s a brief vision, like a one-act play. It reminds me of my mother.

In one sense, the performance contradicts my dependence on independence—my fear of being rooted to a location or a person.

At the same time it also reminds me that whether the setting is a hostel in Germany or a farmhouse in Kansas, the kitchen represents my desire for community, my deep-rooted need to create a place of comfort.

This is motherhood; accepting, eager to comfort and provide, accessing need and providing accordingly.

So yes, I guess a mother is exactly what I want to be.

I plan on belly-laughing about the time I tried to pass off mashed cauliflower for potatoes.

I assuredly will comfort my daughter when she weeps over boys and not making the basketball team.

I, like my mom, want to make a month worth of frozen meals when my daughter-in-law has twins.

I aspire to be like my mom. A woman who learns new traditions, fights for her husband, and prays for her children.  But most specifically, much like that warm kitchen, she draws in her family to sit down and stay awhile.