Sometimes it takes a valley to find an Everest of faith.
I wrote this line from Benjamin William Hastings’s song So Help Me God on a notecard in September 2023 when I received a rare cancer diagnosis.
Back in August 2023, my family was gearing up for back to school. My children were headed into 6th and 2nd grade, and I was returning to teaching at CSU. Life was busy as we adjusted to new routines and after-school activities, with my husband and me dividing and conquering responsibilities. Family dinners became scarce, and—though I hate to admit it—life was full but hectic.
Then, in late September 2023, everything came to a grinding halt. I was diagnosed with an ultra-rare sarcoma, EHE. Our world was shattered. I longed for a life not overshadowed by fear—fear of cancer, fear of death, fear of the unknown. We all know that one day we will die, but a diagnosis like cancer steals the joy of living and the peace of time, replacing them with fear and worry. I couldn’t understand how my body had betrayed me. I felt healthy; I had no symptoms. What had I done to deserve this? Why was this happening?
Before cancer, I believed I had control over my life. But suddenly, I had none. I tried to regain control by researching my cancer obsessively. I wanted to manage it the way I managed my work, my kids’ activities, and our schedules. I wanted a plan. I wanted control. But cancer takes the unknown of the future and defines it in your mind. It replaces hope and excitement with fear and sadness.
In those initial months, my treatment plan shifted repeatedly—first treatments, then surgery, then waiting for a liver transplant. I realized I was not in control of anything: timing, treatments, surgeries, or outcomes. Was it possible I had never been in control?
This feeling of rock-bottom devastation led me to fully surrender to God. I gave Him my burdens. I prayed. And I waited in stillness. My family and I slowed down so we could hear God’s will.
It’s a funny thing when we ask God to show us His will. We often expect grand gestures—parting seas, feeding thousands with a few loaves. When we ask for help, we anticipate a clear, divine sign. But God is always there, guiding us through the Holy Spirit. The problem is, we are too busy. The noise of life drowns out His voice. The everyday distractions—what’s for dinner, who’s driving to practice—can make it hard to receive His guidance outside of Sunday service.
God calls us to be still, but we are anything but. I had to reach the depths of despair to finally surrender—to trust Him with my worries and fears. In surrender, I found stillness. I learned to feel the Holy Spirit, to trust that God has a plan for me. I learned patience, presence, and how to slow down and appreciate simple joys: frost-covered branches, the first green buds of spring, a vibrant summer sunset.
I waited 10 months on the transplant list before I got the call for surgery. As I was wheeled into the operating room, I felt God’s love wrapping around me, filling me with peace. I will never forget that feeling in what should have been one of the scariest moments of my life.
Today, I am five months post-liver transplant. My heart is full of love and gratitude—to God, to my family, friends, and community for their countless prayers, and to my donor family for this incredible gift. Life is not the same. I have walked through major surgery and recovery, but I have felt God by my side every step of the way. Walking in faith has strengthened my relationship with Jesus. The notecard remains on my desk, still reminding me:
Sometimes it takes a valley to find an Everest of faith.
How will you find your Everest of faith? Whether you are on the mountaintop or in the valley, I encourage you to slow down and make time for your relationship with God. He is waiting for you, ready to lead and guide you in ways beyond your imagination. Surrender to His will and trust that He knows what is best for you. None of us know what the future holds, but with God by our side, we can walk in peace, finding joy in the simple gift of each day.
In His love,
Lisa Switzer
