What Is an Answered Prayer?

I didn't even want to speak the word "cancer" out loud

Likely benign.

Those two words on the radiology report opened up a library of memories I wasn’t expecting to relive.

The undertone of the word benign, which hinted at perhaps a positive outcome, was overshadowed by every scenario that a non-benign mass might raise. I stared at the report, as if the third time reading it would be the charm and it would magically change, but the words just stared back at me:

Pancreatic not excluded. CT or MRI recommended for further evaluation.

It was the last day of May. I was at the airport, waiting to board my flight back to Michigan for the summer. Vague thoughts—the kind of memories that you feel but don’t really truly remember— washed over my body as I walked blankly through airport security and to my gate.

Four years ago, my dad had passed away from pancreatic cancer.

The parallels to that summer were uncanny. His diagnosis had come nearly to the date of my receiving this report. I had moved out of my condo in LA and was headed home for the summer, which had been unknowingly and fortuitously planned, enabling me to spend the entire summer with my family.

I was about to do the same in Austin.

With my lease ending in July, this was an early trip back for a family memorial. My dad’s parents had both passed away in the spring. After the memorial, I was supposed to travel to Los Angeles for work, then return to Austin to pack up my apartment. The plan was to spend the Fourth of July in Michigan, head to Northern California with my boyfriend to meet his family, and then return Up North together for a couple of weeks. In the fall, I’d move back to Austin. Two more trips were also penciled in—a conference in San Francisco and another work trip to LA.

I didn’t have time for cancer. Cancer, or anything else that was lingering in my body.

Routine bloodwork a few weeks prior had come back with elevated levels of bilirubin. The doctor had surmised something might be off with my digestive system and ordered an ultrasound. I didn’t think much of it. Until now. The results I’d just received found two masses, on both my pancreas and gallbladder.

Even before the bloodwork was done, my stomach had been bothering me intermittently. I hadn’t been overly concerned. It seems a rite of passage as a girl in the era of oat milk and probiotic supplements to have a sensitive belly. The pain would typically pass quickly, but this time it didn’t. My stomach was now constantly in a dull knot, sometimes with sharp pain rippling through my abdomen.

My dad had also been experiencing stomach pain before we found out. His diagnosis came in May, and then he was gone in September. I spent that summer wanting—wanting it to end, wanting my dad to be out of pain, wanting to wake up from a bad dream laced with fentanyl and sleeping pills.

Matt in New York City

The flight home was a blur. Perhaps a pressurized cabin also pressurizes emotion, gently pushing out the feelings we’ve buried deeply within. I have my best cries at ten thousand feet, and this flight was no exception. Looking out into the blue and pink haze of the horizon, I broke down.

Landing in Michigan, my mom welcomed me home with a big hug. We drove the hour and a half north in quiet conversation. Usually the one to bring a pragmatic voice of encouragement, even she was somber.

The next morning, I sat with my mom and friend Claire at our kitchen island. The maple-block island—a central gathering point of my childhood home—has seen it all. Sticky fingers and late-night giggles over generous scoops of vanilla ice cream and rhubarb sauce. Salty tears spilling from squinty sunshine morning eyes, equally spilling over onto the countertop and into a mug of hot black coffee. Dirty boy elbows lined up to bowls of soup. That countertop had also been piled high with pill bottles, doctor’s notes, and endless cards and flowers from loved ones while my dad was sick. I swiveled back and forth on the barstool, kicking my toes against the pinewood floor, and cried.

Claire gently asked, “What do you think this is bringing up for you about your dad that you haven’t processed yet?”

I thought about that question for weeks.

Grief isn’t linear. I didn’t expect to move on, but this was bringing up memories I would rather forget and making me re-read chapters I wanted closed. I read through old journals from that summer. The negative patterns stand out so easily: guilt for feeling low, avoidance of hard feelings, not feeling supported because I hadn’t let others in, and trying to drown my pain in distractions. Maybe a pinch of grace for my past self wouldn’t be so bad to consider extending.

This entire month was a rollercoaster of emotion—a ride I have found myself wishing I wasn’t tall enough to ride. I wasn’t afraid of death; I was scared of the possibility of months or years spent fighting a cancer that I saw take my father. Scared of what it could do to my family. Scared the life I love might change to a life consumed by doctors and treatment plans. Scared my anxiety and future ill-health might impact my relationship with my boyfriend. Scared to lose out on the future joys of that new and beautiful relationship.

My faith has been part of me for so long. God’s goodness, proven over and over again. Shouldn’t I be more spiritually mature? I felt shaky and unsettled. Does maturity show in resilience—the speed at which I can right my unsteady ship of emotion? Or am I forever a child who needs the help of a spiritual father?

Romans tells us that “Suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame…”

I have conflicting feelings about God. If You are so good, why do floods devastate summer camps? What was the bigger plan in allowing my dad die before he was even 55 years old? This paradox of interdependence can strike me as incredibly egotistical. Why does God design a world where, when we are at our lowest, we are closest to Him? A bunch of little helpless beings that need God when they suffer. He calls himself merciful, and He wants this?

The theme of my year has been letting go of control. My career, my relationships, my plans and goals. And now, my health? Could I surrender control of that to this God?

The stomach pain lingered as I jumped through the hoops of cross-state doctor referrals. I scheduled a CT scan during the week I was home in Michigan, praying to get results back before leaving for LA. I didn’t want to find out any life-changing news alone on a work trip.

I sat in the windowless waiting room at the radiology center, noticing the fellow patients around me. I was drinking the same 16-ounce bottle of berry smoothie–flavored barium suspension liquid as the ghost-like man wheezing across the room from me. What was I doing here? Silently sipping the metallic white liquid through a flimsy plastic straw, I wrote and prayed:

June 5, 2025 • McLaren Northern Michigan Hospital

I am begging God there is no cancer in my body. If there is, I am praying that He makes me ready and willing to use this story for good. Am I willing to be used? To sacrifice my comfortable life? God does not ask for flippant sacrifices and, I think, does not play games.

Lord, help me see You clearly. Let me trust You. I confess I don’t trust Your plan. If the plan includes cancer, I do not want it. I can say the words, “I surrender all,” but do I mean them? I want to. I’m also scared surrender may come with a diagnosis that will change my life.

I’m scared. I surrender my fear to You—my health, plans, and dreams of the summer. I ask You for mercy and healing. And clear results.

Two days before leaving for LA the results came in:

Pancreas: Unremarkable.

Never in my life had I been more thankful to have an unremarkable body. There was no mass, no irregularity. It was completely clear. Incredible relief flooded my mind, but also immediate skepticism. Was the first ultrasound just wrong and picked up something that wasn’t there? Did I really have a mass and it was now gone? We asked God for a clear scan. Was this an answered prayer?

Landing in LA, my stomach remained in a twisted knot. I was still at a loss for what was causing the pain. I visited my old church in South Bay that weekend before returning to Austin, and the message was about how God allows us to be shaken to settle us closer into a relationship with Him. I felt that so strongly. Amidst the emotional and physical pain of the past month my daily conversation with God had increased. I did feel close to Him. I see over and over again the blessings on the other side of struggle that remind me that my high expectations for a comfortable life are not what is promised to anyone.

I say I don't like to overspiritualize life, but I think this is another nudge to embrace the unknown. This experience brought me undeniably closer to God and to others in my life. What if I stopped trying to hold onto my pragmatic nature and let myself see how God is working in His own mysterious ways?

Upon returning to Austin, my textbook doctor robotically referred me to a GI. The specialist reviewed my conflicting test results and blood work with an infectious calm confidence. “Let’s rerun your bloodwork, this time non-fasted,” he recommended. “We could also run an upper endoscopy and do an MRI to be sure, if you want.”

I felt again, this time with growing relief, like another girl with silly stomach pain. I got the second round of bloodwork but felt a nudge to wait on scheduling the MRI and endoscopy. I will spare you the depths of my frustration with Western medicine, but I chose to take my own path and made an acupuncture appointment. I needed advice on my health that looked at the whole picture, not just sticking a scope down my throat.

Walking into the acupuncture clinic, I felt my energy shift. A little calmer, a little slower. The older man who runs the clinic held my pulse and spoke calmly about chi, the energetic balance of our bodies. After two acupuncture sessions and a bottle of mysterious Chinese herbs, I began to feel a shift in my body. I was still hurting, but it didn’t feel as heavy.

The last round of bloodwork came back normal. No MRI or endoscopy needed, not even the prescriptions from the GI. Even writing this now, the pain feels like a distant memory. I’ve felt good, truly good, since early July.

So, what really is an answered prayer?

The pain in my stomach started before the stress of any tests or doctors’ visits and lasted over a month. Still with an unclear cause. Did God answer my prayers—and the prayers of many dear friends—for physical healing? Was it cancer? Was the initial ultrasound inaccurate, but triggered a stress response in my body? Perhaps my body was “keeping the score”—a painful release of emotion buried deep for years. The GI even told me he often puts patients on antidepressants to relieve abdominal pain. The mind-body connection can’t be dismissed.

It would be easy to rush back into life as usual, to avoid reflecting on the deeper mysteries of faith and health. “You’re better now! Don’t overthink it,” says the voice in my head. “People will think you’re being overdramatic, making a big deal out of nothing.” But I feel nudged to give weight to the feelings I’d rather cast aside.

I asked for peace, mercy, and healing. All those things were given. Even emotional healing I didn’t know I needed. Knowledge that I can express my darkest feelings and they will not be “too much” in my relationship. Empathy for others struggling with their health. Thankfulness for divine timing. Another reminder that all things do work together for good.

I always exit the thick maze in my mind only to rediscover the love of God. While I wander through the labyrinth of hedges, I have to remember: God’s perspective is bigger than my tiny imagination. I was given above and beyond what I asked for. Not what I thought I wanted, but what I truly needed.

God answers prayer, but not always in the ways we expect. His answers can be so much greater than anything we even know to pray for.

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A big thank you to Anu & Jay for helping me corral my wild thoughts.

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