Survivor Stories
Faith as My Foundation: A Journey Through Cancer and God's Grace
How my relationship with God became my source of healing and hope during the darkest chapter of my life
By
Abike Lawal
on
Jul 23, 2025
The months of treatment that followed tested every aspect of my faith. Chemotherapy sessions became my unlikely prayer meetings—sitting in that sterile room with poison flowing into my veins,
When Silence Felt Louder Than Prayer
I remember the exact moment my faith was tested beyond anything I had ever experienced. Sitting in the consultation room at the National Hospital Abuja, hearing the words "breast cancer" felt like a thunderclap in a clear sky. At thirty-four, with two young children and a thriving career as a teacher in Wuse, I had plans. God, I thought, had different ones.
That first night, I lay awake staring at the photo of Jesus on our bedroom wall—the same image that had comforted me through heartbreaks and challenges since childhood. But now, His face seemed distant, and my prayers felt like they were bouncing off the ceiling. Where was the God who had walked with me through university struggles, through the early years of marriage, through the joy of my children's births? In that moment of crisis, I felt more alone than ever, despite my husband Chidi sleeping beside me and my mother's rosary beads clutched in my palm.
The woman who had led Bible study every Wednesday evening, who sang in the choir every Sunday, suddenly found herself questioning everything. Why me? Why now? What had I done wrong? The silence in response to these questions was deafening, and I wondered if this was what Job felt like when his world crumbled around him.
Walking Through the Valley
The months of treatment that followed tested every aspect of my faith. Chemotherapy sessions became my unlikely prayer meetings—sitting in that sterile room with poison flowing into my veins, I found myself having the most honest conversations with God I'd ever had. Not the polite, grateful prayers of Sunday service, but raw, desperate pleas mixed with anger and bargaining.
"God, if you heal me, I'll dedicate my entire life to serving you," I whispered during one particularly brutal session, my head scarf damp with sweat. But then, during a quiet moment between the nausea and fatigue, I heard something—not an audible voice, but a gentle presence that seemed to say, "I don't need your bargains. I need your trust."
It was my pastor's wife, Sister Funmi, who helped me understand that faith during crisis doesn't mean pretending everything is fine. "Bukola," she told me one afternoon as we sat in my garden, watching my children play, "even Jesus cried out 'Why have you forsaken me?' Your questions aren't lack of faith—they're faith seeking understanding." Those words became my anchor. I began to see my struggle not as a failure of faith, but as faith being refined, like gold in fire.
Rising in His Strength
The turning point came six months into treatment, during a particularly low moment when I could barely get out of bed. My five-year-old daughter, Kemi, climbed up beside me and placed her small hand on my bald head. "Mummy, you look like Daddy when he shaves his head for church," she said innocently. In that moment, I saw myself not as a sick woman losing her battle, but as a warrior preparing for victory.
I started a prayer journal, documenting not just my requests, but God's small mercies: the unexpected energy to cook dinner, the reduced side effects after particularly intense prayers, the financial provision that came just when we needed it most. My faith evolved from one that demanded answers to one that found peace in mystery. I learned to say "Thy will be done" not as resignation, but as the ultimate expression of trust.
Today, two years in remission, I lead a cancer support group at our church in Garki. Every Thursday evening, we gather—a mix of patients, survivors, and families—and we pray together. Not just for healing, but for strength, for peace, for wisdom. I share my story not as someone who had perfect faith, but as someone whose imperfect faith was perfected through trials.
My relationship with God now has a depth it never had before. I understand that He wasn't absent during my darkest hours—He was carrying me through them. My scars, both physical and emotional, have become testimonies of His faithfulness. When new patients join our group, scared and questioning, I tell them what I've learned: that faith isn't about having all the answers, but about trusting the One who does, even when His ways are beyond our understanding.
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