A Limp, a Glass Angel and a Very Lost Sheep

Rick’s Grandma Charlotta has been on my mind a lot lately. It seems she steps into my thoughts almost every single day. A strange thing as she’s been gone many years and I wasn’t especially close to her in the time our paths crossed. When I met Charlotta in 1987--my freshman year of college and first hometown visit with Rick!--I immediately obsesrved a couple of things about her.

Right away I noticed sweet Grandma Charlotta had a tremendous limp as she walked. Her body would rock or sort of sway back and forth as she moved. I noticed it, but I am not sure I ever stopped to ask why that was. She was somewhere in her late 70s and I guess I just assumed that was the sort of thing that went along with being somewhere in your late 70s. 

Another obvious thing about her was her industriousness. She was always busy doing things. She lived with Rick’s family and cared for their home. She helped make dinners and threw in loads of laundry and seemed always to have someplace to go or something to do. She certainly never appeared to be bored. She walked downtown and drove her own car and even kept her own mobile home somewhere way out in the country. 

I remember hearing how she spent most of her summers living in her mobile home and working at her cousin’s nearby greenhouses and nursery. Yes, a woman in her 70s, with a substantial limp, and she was working hard outdoors all summer long. 

She was a quiet woman. She didn’t offer a lot of opinions or even insert herself into conversation very much. She seemed quite content to just sit in the presence of those around the table or the family room and listen to the banter and the younger generation's back and forth. With a slight smile on her face, she loved to just be present and taking it all in. She never overstayed or over-anything’d. At the end of the day, she would slip quietly from the room and retire to her bedroom without hardly a sound. Even with her limp, Charlotta walked softly.

She had a quick and quite beautiful smile, but I heard enough stories to know her life had been very hard. She worked long hours as a waitress in a diner for many years. She cared for her children and her husband and there was a good deal of heartache with both. But this quiet, sweet woman seemed to just keep going. Even with her limp. 

I am sure I never once heard her say anything about pain or discomfort or really anything disparaging of anything or anyone at all. She was pleasant. Industrious. Steadfast.

Her quiet strength and occupation were always apparent to me, but lately, I find myself with a new and even greater admiration for her. 

Strangely enough, it is her limp which is drawing her to my mind all of these years later. I haven’t said it out loud to anyone—not even to Rick—but I feel lately the way I limp around our home is reminding me of his Grandma Charlotta. On particularly bad days, I cannot walk without a strange rocking back and forth of my person. I have no idea why. It’s just the awkward gait that is now taking place in my body as both knees are in pain. I suppose it’s some kind of strange compensation my body is dictating to protect me from pain or further injury. I don’t really know. No one seems to really know.

Yes, I’ve seen several doctors and tried some treatments. Quite a few, in fact. I am currently waiting on approval for another new option. And we remain hopeful that this next thing might work, but in the meantime ... I hobble. Some days are better than others. Somedays I can mask it. Somedays, not so much.

I am still struggling with the fact that in the midst of my cancer diagnosis I must deal with such a debilitating and life-altering side effect of my meds. A few weeks ago when the pain was especially bad, we finally broke down and Rick ordered me a cane off of amazon. It arrived and, in a fit of rage, I literally threw the box into the back of my closet. And there it still sits. Of course I am having a difficult time accepting this new normal. So I hobble and hold on to furniture and walls and people and pretend that cane is not sitting buried in the back of my closet calling my name. 

Somedays I walk-limp around like Grandma Charlotta and go about my business and take care of the things of daily living and other days I find myself with enough anger to want to throw just about anything and everything against the sorry wall at the back of my closet. 

I am definitely not half as stoic as dear Charlotta. I don’t deny my pain. I don’t cheerfully pretend all is well. I don’t put on the happy face and charge-limp forward. Rick hears me grumble and complain. He sees me cry. He watches me debate if I need a pill for pain or another pill to sleep. He cannot help but watch me hobble across the kitchen or drag myself up the stairs every evening. He is living with a woman who has somehow transformed from a vibrant, active middle aged always-on-the-go-gal to a woman who feels like she's been catapulted somewhere in the middle of her 70s. Maybe her 80s.

I spend a good amount of time each week at my mom’s assisted living community and it is not lost on me that, these days, some of the residents there might be able to beat me in a foot race. Not such a good feeling for this always pretty competitive girl.

So I’ve been thinking a good bit about Charlotta McNatt. Thinking about her hard life. Thinking about the years of physical and emotional pain. Thinking about how she was a quiet, steady presence in Rick’s family home. She took care of so many things with hardly a word. She came in and out of rooms with hardly a sound. She never left a mess or a trace or any kind of dramatic imprint of her presence. I've thought also about how in all those years, though she was loved by Rick’s family, I am sure she at times felt a little bit invisible.

I might limp a bit like Charlotta, but the similarities probably end there. My family makes me feel very seen. My husband and even my children often express a good deal of appreciation and adoration. They love and honor me so well. They have not counted me out. They have not written me off. They do everything in their power to help me keep living vibrantly and voraciously. I know I am lucky and I couldn’t be more grateful for their incredible support.

Yes, truth be told, I am a little bit embarrassed by this new limp. Embarrassed that I have to be dropped off at the door or use my mother’s handicap parking sign or ask for help so often throughout my day. But I’m also grateful that my family continues to treat me like the same old mom I’ve always been. Yes, they are more tender and more helpful, but there’s such an enormous gift in their normalcy. 

It's been an especially frustrating couple of weeks as I've been doing my best to whip up all the holiday magic in our home. I love the details and decorating of Christmas. I love it so much. But the past two days I have had increased pain with every single step and it has made all the merry-making pretty maddening. 

Earlier today, as I was tweaking a few ornaments on the Christmas tree I noticed a small glass-beaded angel that hangs every year on our tree---34 Christmases, in fact! It is an ornament Charlotta made at one of her [many] church craft classes. She loved to create these little glass angels for the ladies church bazaar to sell each year. It was probably on our first Christmas married that she gifted this one to us. That little angel ornament is one of the only things we have left of her and it is absolutely no accident that I would come across it this morning. It reminded me again of Charlotta.

 And so today I want to take a moment to extend a bit of grace to those of you who are also limping around a little more lately. Maybe it is a real physical limp. Maybe it’s something else. Something more invisible. Some kind of pain or internal wound that has you feeling more hobbled than holy in this month of Christmas. Something making you feel more burdensome and less beautiful at this most wonderful time of the year.

I am sure, whether you have your own personal cheering section, or not, it is still possible to feel very alone in your pain. Alone in your limping. You might go about your business and take care of all the things like Charlotta did, but, even so, you feel fragile — like a mere wisp or a shadow. Like you could come and go and no one might even notice. Maybe you even feel completely invisible in your pain.

And, one thing I have learned in recent years especially, is that, when we are weary, the holidays can sometimes make us feel worse. All of that comfort and joy can feel fake or forced or, at the very least, pretty fragile.

I just want you to know you are not alone. You are seen. You are heard. Your pain is real. Your tears are precious. You might not feel like you have much comfort in this world, but you do have a Heavenly Father who loves you and desires deeply to have a real relationship with you. He desires to be both your comfort and your joy. 

He sees your limp. Even if it is invisible to others. 

He sees you. Even if you feel invisible to others. 

We have this beautiful glass-beaded angel ornament hanging on our tree as a remembrance of Grandma Charlotta. It is sweet. Very sweet. But far sweeter is the news the angels sang to the shepherds when baby Jesus was born in Bethlehem. 

“Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.”

Those simple, unsophisticated shepherds in the fields. They had canes or staffs too. They had rough roads to walk. Tough work to do. Unruly sheep. Hard ground. Cold nights. Long hours. Lonely days. 

Yet God chose those servants of the sheep to be recipients of the most incredible and important proclamation of Good News ever given to our world.

Do not be afraid!

I bring you good news!

I bring you great joy!

It is for all the people! 

Everyone! Even the simple shepherds. Even the lonely lady limping along. Even the one who feels invisible. Even the one in constant pain. Even the one who feels all is lost. Even the one who can’t seem to find Christ in Christmas.

I so often find myself amazed at the beautiful way scripture connects and communicates from one end of the Bible to the other. The shepherds and their sheep—they are some of my very favorite subject material and I love how they seem to constantly make an appearance. 

Because though God announced this good news to the shepherds in the fields way back when at the birth of Jesus, it wasn't until many years later that this same Jesus showed us what the good news actually looks like when He shared the parable of the lost sheep. 

“What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not lead the ninety-nine in the open country, and go after the one that is lost, until he finds it?

And when he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders rejoicing.

And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and and his neighbors , saying to them, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.” Luke 15

Why could those angels proclaim this good news? “Do not be afraid; for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.”

Because the babe born in Bethlehem would someday be that same Good Shepherd who would leave the 99 and go after the ONE who was lost, limping, hurting.

THAT is good news. THAT is great joy. THAT is for all people. 

The One does matter that much.

You matter. 

Your limp in life matters. 

When you feel otherwise, remember the Good Shepherd who leaves and searches and tenderly lays the lost sheep on His shoulders. 

The Good Shepherd who carries it carefully home and rejoices.

Glory to God in the highest, indeed. 

Grandma Charlotta with us at our college graduation - May 1991

Mountains, Oceans and Fall Trees Across the Lake

This morning, while at my friend Karen’s house, a few of us were looking out her window and across the lake on which she lives. We were appreciating the fall trees now dressed in bright and bold shades of every November color and as we stood there taking in the beautiful view, Karen made a comment that has stuck with me all day. 

“It’s funny,” she said, “but I find myself admiring the trees across the lake in other people’s yards even more than in my own yard. I guess, from a distance, I can see the whole tree better. I can see it in its setting. I can better see its beauty.”  

I don’t think she meant anything especially deep or profound in her comment. It was just an observation she shared as we all stared across the water at the glorious trees on the other side. The lovely trees in the distance.

But I’ve played it back in my mind several times today. Because it’s true. 

Because sometimes we do need a little distance to gain full perspective. We have to pull back. Pan out. Push away a little so we can see the whole picture and appreciate what is actually most beautiful. 

I think that’s true even in how we feel about and see ourselves. So often I notice something lovely about a friend, and if I take the time to tell her, the response is almost always a little bit of surprise and disbelief. “Oh, really? You think so? This? That? You’re sure? Wow. Thank you. I hadn’t noticed.”

I guess it is sometimes challenging to see the good or the glorious right in front of  our faces. Perhaps we are too close. So focused on the minutia we miss the gift of mystery and majesty. We just don’t have the correct perspective or the full and more objective picture. Our sight line is limited.

Like when up on a mountain. We experience the rough rock and the steep slope. Our feet only focused on the next unsteady step or the precarious path ahead. We might have sweat and grime ground into our faces and pebbles in our hiking boots.  And that is what we so easily and naturally zoom in on when we are up and on the mountain—the current state of ourselves. The climbing, clinging, and sometimes crawling.  

But that is an entirely different view than seeing that mountain from afar, isn’t it? The breadth, the height, the scope. Not at all the same. It can be the very same mountain as the one where we felt pebbles in our shoes. The same mountain where we tripped over rough rock, but an entirely different seeing. An entirely different view.

Perspective. It is so important.

Sometimes the nitty gritty is necessary, but sometimes we need to figure out how to back away and notice the grandeur. 

Like when my children were little and filled sand pails with water from the ocean. [It was a real thing with our kids]. I remember Connor doing that once and yelling excitedly, “Mom, come see the ocean in my bucket!” He was so proud. Bless him. He wasn’t wrong. That was, indeed, the ocean in his small plastic pail, but seeing that tiny splash of water in my little boy’s bucket wasn’t anything close to the vast ocean just over his shoulder. 

Living up close in the midst of our pebbles and dust and messy selves it is so hard to see all the things clearly. We are like children proud with our tiny pails of water with the grand ocean over our shoulders. We look at life with our little magnifying glasses and so easily miss the miraculous. The beautiful. The breathtaking. The breadth of life.

Perhaps God, on occasion, wants to encourage us to back up a little and see more of what He sees. I remember, as a young girl, singing the song “He holds the whole world in His hands, He holds the whole world in His hands, He holds the whole world in His hands, He holds the WHOLE world in His hands.” Remember it? I have always been such a visual person. As a child I didn’t just sing those words (loudly) in chapel, but I am sure I pictured them. God literally holding the whole world. God’s hands. And where as I questioned a lot when I was young (ask my mom) I somehow didn’t question this. He held it. We sang it. End of story. 

But God not only holds the whole world. He sees it. He sees it wholly. He sees it from the beginning to the end. All of it. Omnisciently. Comprehensively. Completely. Perfectly. It’s why we can trust Him with the big things in our lives and also with the very little. None of it too big. None of it too small. Only God can perfectly span the distance from minutia to majestic. Only God has hands big enough to hold it all, but to know it all and love it well. Because He is God. God. He is. 

Isaiah 40 tells us, 

“Who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand,
    or with the breadth of his hand marked off the heavens?
Who has held the dust of the earth in a basket,
    or weighed the mountains on the scales
and the hills in a balance? Who can fathom the Spirit of the Lord?”

And further down in the chapter …

“To whom will you compare me?
    Or who is my equal?” says the Holy One.Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens:
    Who created all these?
He who brings out the starry host one by one
    and calls forth each of them by name.
Because of his great power and mighty strength,
    not one of them is missing.”

Our God can know the very number of hairs on our head, and yet, somehow still hold the whole world in His hands. He has perfect and complete perspective, but remains personal and passionate about every detail of every one of his dear children.

Who can fathom? No one. Not one of us. We can’t even come close. 

But that is why He wants us to step back and see the beauty and glory. To see the gift. Yes, to see and appreciate the small … but also to take in the majestic mountain, the vast ocean, and that glorious, glorious tree out across the lake.

Take time to look. 

Take time to see.

Take time to know God.

The Good-Hard

Writing this afternoon from my infusion chair and wanting to thank you for your prayers these past couple of weeks as I've gone through a series of new scans. Especially in this last day with my (biggest) PET/CT scan and results. 

Rick and I met with my doctor today and are so happy to report things continue to look very stable. One tiny spot of growth in my spine, but overall everything else is shrinking or remaining unchanged. So the plan is to continue with my same treatment. Onward, troops! But please do pray for that L2 vertebrae which is under attack right now. L2! I’m not suggesting a bumper sticker, but maybe a post it note stuck somewhere discreet. I would absolutely be tickled to think that I have friends praying for my L2 vertebrae. Isn’t it all so weird, and yet, strangely wonderful?

Hard to believe, but in the the next couple of months I will be at the 3 year mark of this recent diagnosis. The fact that I am almost at 3 years and my doctors have been able to keep me stable and on my first line of treatment is worth noting. I can't explain how big that is in the metastatic cancer world and how grateful I am.

I am also crazy grateful for my scan team. I have this incredible dynamic duo at Emory-St. Joseph in Atlanta. Rodney and Katarina. Before jabbing me with my radioactive tracer, Rodney makes me feel like I am coming in for a spa treatment when he tucks a warm blanket around me and hands me my vanilla (not a latte) barium smoothie. Radioactive or not, Katarina actually hugs me when I climb out of my machine. She wishes me light and love and this time she said to me, “God is good.”  I almost cried when she said that. I told her my daughter, Sarah, had just given me a sweatshirt for my birthday last week which said, “God is good.” Katarina told me, “I love that and now you need to get her a sweatshirt that says ‘All the time.’ God is good. All the time.”

And He is. Good. All the time. But cancer isn’t. Cancer is hard. Even with this continued stability, let me assure you, the cancer road is fraught with challenge. Good news tonight or not, cancer is cancer. And I can’t help but hate it.  I hate what the medications are doing to my body and the new anxiety it has brought to me and to my family. The constant appointments and tests and blood draws and wonderings. The always waiting for another result or report. The every day management of meds and their side effects. But even in my always wanting to wish it away. Even in my constant craving to crush it. Even in my every day desire to destroy it. I'm going to tell you something you might not believe. 

And you can say you don't believe me. You can. That's your choice. But I am going to tell you anyway. And then you're going to have to think about it and wonder about the possibility--and maybe even the veracity--of my words.

 

So here it is—

I hate having cancer, that is true. But also true, it is teaching me things. Hard things, but Holy things. Things almost impossible to learn in a completely comfortable and pain-free life. Maybe someday I'll sit down and get organized and write out that list of cancer lessons. Maybe. But for now, you're just going to have to trust me on this. There's something here that is good. Good for me. Hard, yes, but good. Good-Hard. It can be both. It's a real thing. Those of you who have walked roads of suffering or battled crazy brokenness, you might know of what it is I write. 

There is some type of not-so-easy-to-explain treasure found in dark places. TREASURE!  Isaiah 45:3 is a verse to which I have held tightly from the very beginning of this trial. And it is more true today. More than ever. "I will give you the treasures of darkness, and hidden riches of secret places, that you may know that I, the LORD, which call thee by thy name, am the God of Israel." 

More than ever before, I know that God is God. I know more deeply that He is who He says He is. He calls me by my name. I know more fervently that He is for me. With me. All around me. He holds me close. He has my back. He goes before me. He is already there. He has this cancer. He has me. HE HAS ME!

My prayer is that someday when the result isn't so encouraging. Some day when I hear not promising words, but the fearful words of progression. My prayer is on that day I will be able to continue to claim the treasure of these dark places just as boldly and confidently. 

And If I am. And if I do. It won't because of my own power or strength, but because of His. I bring nothing. I know that better today than ever before. I bring absolutely nothing to this fight. The very best I can offer up is my sometimes sunny disposition. And, oh my heavens, let me tell you that is not even close to enough to get me through this. 

If you are in a dark place right now, I want to encourage you to reach out to my friend, Jesus. Ask Him for His power. Ask Him for His strength. Ask Him to show you the treasures He has for you hidden in the darkness.  He is already there and He is the light. 

He will show you.  He will show up. No, these aren't the shiny riches and wealth of this world, these are different gifts. Different givings. Different good. These are the things which don't make sense when measured by the desires of our world. No one is going to want to trade places with you. But, I promise you, He has something good for you in the midst of your hard. Good-Hard. It’s a real thing. 

Ask Him to show you. Go read His word. If you don’t have a Bible, message me. I’ll send you one tomorrow. I will! I’ve got nothing else to do tomorrow. My scans and tests and results are done for the day. Done for the time being. I would love to hear from you. Encourage you. Pray for you. I know I am not alone in hard stuff. So many of you have hard things. Harder things. If you are taking the time to read my words tonight, then you have come alongside me. I'd be honored to come alongside you. 

I am thankful for each one of you … you are my team. 

Happy [early] Thanksgiving. God is good. All the time.

“Give thanks to the Lord for He is good, for His steadfast love endures forever.”  Psalm 107:1

A Table Before Me

"You prepare a table before me." ~ Psalm 23:5

Psalm 23 and I have been hanging out a lot lately. Between the long acupuncture sessions and the longer scans I get to spend a good deal of time being utterly still and completely alone with my thoughts. Nothing else to occupy me. Zero interactions. No distractions. And this sometimes feels kind of vulnerable. Maybe even a tad dangerous.  Just me, my brain and a solitary, small space.

Early on, I realized I have a choice when I find myself alone in a machine or with my thoughts ---Will I allow it to feel like a prison or a place of peace? I can let the fear and anxiety overwhelm me or I can let the words of Jesus pour over me. I’m not always successful, but I try to go with the latter approach and fix my eyes on Him and His Word. 

And so this week it was me and the 23rd Psalm. You know the one — The Lord is my Shepherd. It’s a Psalm I grew up on. I imagine most of us have some connection to this particular chapter. I remember being forced to memorize it in Sunday school for a gold star and even in elementary school. Probably high school too! It was a requirement. And though, back then, I wasn’t entirely convinced of its power, I’m so glad today to have it inscribed confidently across my brain. I'm so grateful to have it in my repertoire of things committed to memory. I call on it often.

"You prepare a table before me." Psalm 23:5 

Yesterday in the acupuncture chair and today in the MRI machine, it was verse 5 which grabbed hold of my attention.  Possibly due to the fact that this past weekend I spent a good deal of time preparing a couple of tables for guests in my backyard. 

Thursday and Saturday we hosted two events back to back—-a birthday party for friends and a homecoming dinner for our daughter and her friends.  And somewhere along the planning line, I decided to put together an extra large outdoor table for both parties off the side of our basement patio.

It’s that magical time of year here in the south. The weather isn’t too hot or too cool. The leaves beginning to change. The bugs beginning to hibernate.  The days shorter and the night comes sooner. It is just lovely outdoors in Georgia at the end of October. Like I said, magical.

And so al fresco dining seemed to be the way to go for both soirees. Same space. Same table. Different people and parties. Easy peasy.

The woods around our home were the perfect backdrop. Rick and I worked hard to hang extra lighting and set up tables and chairs. It is never as easy as I think it should be. The lights kept falling and our frustration kept mounting. But our resolve was steadfast. We would do this thing. We would make this work. A roll of duct table and 300 zip ties later and we had achieved our desired effect. I say “our.” I mean my.  Rick could care two hoots about an effect, desired or otherwise. But he cares about me and so he persevered. He’s truly the best. 

With those tasks complete, the real fun began. I prepared the table. Because that’s what I love to do. Whether it be with linen and china or paper products and plastic. I love to prepare a table. I love to put it all together. The special touches, the candles, the centerpiece, the color scheme. The aesthetics. The vibe! Especially when nature gets to be the backdrop for my canvas. That is my happiest hostess place ever.

I carefully considered the details. It wasn’t thrown together haphazardly or hurriedly. Not at all. I took delight in each decision. Spent time on each item. I scoured our yard and woods for treasures and cuttings to put into my centerpiece. Leaves, pinecones, a birds nest and fading flowers. If you’re wired a little like this, then you know exactly of what I write. It’s joy.

While folding napkins and arranging placemats, I thought of those who would attend.  I considered the women and then the teens who might sit at this table with the vibrant woods around them and the lights twinkling above them. I thought of their conversations and their connections. The fellowship. Their friendship. It felt beautiful to me. And that’s why I did it. That’s why I do it. 

I love bringing beauty together, but, even more, I love bringing people together. That is the most beautiful. 

And so today thinking about that phrase in Psalm 23, I couldn’t help but resonate with this one line of scripture and its beauty. 

God PREPARES a table before us. 

HE thinks of us. Considers us. Plans for us. He is in the very details and design of what fills our hearts and fits us together. He doesn’t need the magic of a perfect fall evening, He is the Mystery of Perfection. He is the Designer of all seasons and situations. He isn’t limited to the two weeks of the Georgia year when all things beautiful converge. He is the Very Artist of beauty. He is beauty. He, the unchanging, immutable God who choreographs the dramatic color-changing of leaves. He is not just the ethereal light of a fall evening, He is the actual Light of the World. 

And, even in His full glory, like a most diligent and dedicated host, He prepares a table before me. FOR me. For you. He beckons us to come and sit and be full. Full from the bounty of His blessings. Full from the abundant love of His bringing. Full with the joy of fellowship, friendship, kinship and communion. 

The table. A beautiful symbol of what God has for us. A holy place to be filled. A holy filling. A fitting together of His beloved created and beautiful creation. His own Son sitting at His right hand. Perfection embodied. Our Savior. A  Place-Saver for us. A place saved for all who might come. Anyone. Everyone. All welcome.

That second line in vs. 5 tells us that He not only prepares the table, but does so “in the presence of my enemies.” Hmm. My enemies? I always thought that seemed a little odd. Why would the Psalmist, David, include this? “In the presence of my enemies,” is surely a place no one wants to be. It is a place of hard. A place of hatred. A place even perhaps of hostility. And yet God prepares His table there. Even in that unholiest of places.

Could it be a reminder to us that even in the ugly, unwanted areas of our life, He is preparing. He is present. He is planning for a feast for us, His frail and fearful children. He is arranging a banquet of love in the very midst of our battered living. He is not ignoring us in our pain, He is inviting us into His peace.

He loves us that much. To remind us—even in the hardest, darkest dwellings—there is a place at the table for our tired selves to come sit. 

My paltry attempts at creating a perfect fall evening of fun and fellowship pail in comparison.  As beautiful as I tried to make each evening for my guests and my girl, my efforts didn’t hold a candle or a hanging string of cafe lights to what God has already orchestrated on my behalf.

He has prepared a table for me.

He has a place card with my name written.

With your name.

He has a seat saved and a spot secured.

A chair is waiting.

He has received my rsvp and He knows someday I will be coming. And, like the most gracious Host in the whole wide world, He cannot wait for my arrival. 


He has prepared a table before me. 

Praise be to Him from whom all blessings flow.

Mondays + Forevers

As much as I have always loved Karen Carpenter I never really agreed much with her feelings about Monday mornings. Or rainy days, for that matter. For most of my life Monday mornings, for me, have felt like a fresh start. A new beginning. A reset for each new week. 

And, for what it's worth, I actually adore a solid rainy day. 

But the past 6 Mondays have brought with them a trek downtown at rush hour for an acupuncture treatment in hope of combatting the knee pain I have from my other treatments. And, unfortunately, it's not helping much. I have other things on the horizon, but this was our first step to keep me walking. Zero pun intended.

I got in the car this morning and felt the gray cloud climb right in with me. As I drove to the hospital, my frustrations and ugly thoughts swirled unswervingly. Suffocating, actually. My brain bounced from one negative thing to another. 

Where was my Monday morning magic? My reset?  My rest-assured? My new-week renewal?

And so the pity party began. I had an hour drive ahead of me fighting traffic-- Did you know at one point there are 9 lanes of traffic going into the city of Atlanta?  And that's only one way. If we doubled that for traffic moving north bound it would be 18 lanes. If it wasn't insane, it would be almost funny! But funny it is not.—Fighting traffic only to arrive at the hospital and join a line which would feel longer than a popular ride at Disney World. And why? Oh yes, so that I could have someone stick about 20 needles into my body.

The whole time I  kept thinking-- and this is the good stuff! This is part of the healing. Part of the helping. Next week I will start a new series of scans and tests and that's the hard part. The really hard. The really ugly. And in keeping with this particular state of mind, I reminded myself all of this goes on forever. There's no end in sight. No stopping of treatment or scans or celebratory bell ringing with what I've got. It's for always. It’s forever.

So, yeah. That black cloud. It was only growing blacker. Bleaker. Heavy and oppressive. I knew where I was headed and I knew 9 lanes of traffic or not, it was a dead end. This kind of thinking is death. As easy as it is to fall into a pattern of pity party grumbling and complaining, it leads nowhere good. You know that. I know that. But it’s hard to avoid at times.

No amount of talking to myself was getting me off this path. So I knew I needed something. I needed to stop the thoughts in my head and decided to opt for music.  But no way was Karen Carpenter going to cut it. Recently I had copied my sweet DIL's Spotify playlist and so, even with my bad attitude, I decided to start with that. I hit play.  

Kari Jobe’s old song "Forever" was first up. Really? Forever? Wasn't that word just part of my utter agitation? Like the 9 lanes of traffic, almost funny. Definitely not funny. Forever. But it didn't take long because within minutes of her music I could feel the cloud begin to lift. The load to lighten. The grumbling to move aside for gratitude. 

Is it magic? No! It’s the mystery of Jesus. It's His words. His worthiness. His worship. It's him which sets me on the road to renewal and a much needed re-set on this Monday morning and every morning. When I forget that, I end up fighting more than my knee pain or the cancer in my bones. I end up fighting fears and frustrations He never asked me to carry. I end up in a place he never intended me to go. I end up with a weight I have no ability to shoulder.

Have you ever been on this kind of dead-end road? If so, you know it gets you nowhere fast.

The music ended and the car was parked and I walked into the Emory downtown hospital campus. And, yes, the line was as long as I have ever seen it. I am not sure it would be an exaggeration to say it was close to 100 people waiting to check in at registration. A hundred cancer patients should never have to line up and wait like this. It is appalling. It is definitely not Disney World.

But here we all were and I’m pretty sure if I hadn’t had that reset with Kari Jobe’s music in my car a few minutes earlier my head would have spun off it’s axis and I might just have exploded all over this Emory Hospital entryway. Thankfully that wasn’t the case.

I remembered the song lyrics I was just singing in my car. The song, the words, the message, the Man of Jesus. Jesus who understands the long lines and the dead ends and the dark clouds and the dark days and the hard Mondays and the hateful treatments. Jesus the Resurrected King. He is it. He is the only thing keeping me from total despair. As I stood there in the long line and limped forward one step at a time, I was more certain than ever that even if this line and my treatments go on forever He is walking right alongside me. He is right here. I might have some sad Mondays, but He is right here with me every day. Forever. 

FOREVER ~ Kari Jobe.   YouTube link if you'd like to listen: Forever

The moon and stars they wept

The morning sun was dead

The Savior of the world was fallen

His body on the cross

His blood poured out for us

The weight of every curse upon Him

One final breath He gave

As Heaven looked away

The Son of God was laid in darkness

A battle in the grave

The war on death was waged

The power of hell forever broken

The ground began to shake

The stone was rolled away

His perfect love could not be overcome

Now death where is your sting

Our resurrected King

Has rendered you defeated

Forever, He is glorified

Forever, He is lifted high

Forever, He is risen

He is alive

He is alive

The ground began to shake

The stone was rolled away

His perfect love could not be overcome

Now death where is your sting

Our resurrected King

Has rendered you defeated

Forever, He is glorified

Forever, He is lifted high

Forever, He is risen

You have overcome

We sing Hallelujah

The Lamb has overcome.

An Apology

I feel like an apology is in order. An apology from me. I was so caught up in my own storm-drama wondering if the big gala we had spent 7 months planning was going to fall apart in the face of Helene on Thursday night, I stopped listening to what was happening around me. 

We prayed and we re-positioned our event.  We hunkered down and handled all the changes and we—well, at least, I—didn’t look up for a few days. All I could think of was the money that would be lost, the opportunities missed, and the hard work all for nothing.

And so miraculously the worst of the storm didn’t hit us. It went east. And what did come, came late. The benefit began and the party continued and we praised God for allowing it take place safely. I am sure I even felt a bit smug—We had made the right decision. We gambled and we won. I really wasn’t sure until I saw the 400+ people seated in their seats. Dry. Safe. Celebrating.

But then I started reading and listening and seeing what happened elsewhere. When the storm swung away from us it obviously had to hit somewhere else. But that didn’t fully connect in my mind until a good bit later. 

It didn’t fully sink in until my pictures were posted and our event stuff put away. 

This weekend, as a country, we celebrated homecomings and national sons day and football victories. As we should. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that, I just can’t quite reconcile it in the face of what I’m reading and seeing today. 

I am struggling with the fact that my team was hugging and high-fiving Thursday night at a pumped up party while others were without power and water.  I can’t stand the fact that so much of eastern Georgia and South Carolina and North Carolina are tonight sitting in total devastation. The reports are horrific. The results heartbreaking.

All I can think is — and I was worried about our fundraiser for 400? I mean, trust me, it would have been a real hit for our non-profit to have to postpone and lose all the money spent for the set up that was already in place … the food ordered …the florals … yes, all of that. But NOTHING in comparison to what I’m hearing about today.

Helene has been horrific in the Southeast. Homes hit, trees toppled, lives lost. Power and water gone. Towns submerged. People still missing. So much shattered.

And yet for the rest of the world life went on. I’ve noticed 100 homecoming picture posts on social media. So much chatter about the football games yesterday. I am worried about a leaky porch roof and too much rainwater in my backyard. But people are truly suffering not very many miles away. And it is hard to wrestle with all of this. 

What is this world which allows some to celebrate and some to suffer? Simultaneously. How can this be?

I mean I kind of know what it feels like to be hit with devastating news and then watch others continue … to continue. It’s a weird thing watching this happen. But what choice do we have? Even if people mourn with those who mourn, they have to at some point wake up one morning and move on. And celebrate homecomings and football games. Of course they do. Like I said, it’s just weird. There’s a wrestling. 

We cannot all live on the edge of loss.  We cannot all park on the place of fear. We can empathize and we can come alongside, but we are all suffering and surviving in our own personal day to day ways. One week it is me. One week it is you. Compassion and community are vital parts to our living and loving, but perhaps can only go so deep and so wide. Can only go on for so many days. And then we must feel badly but … continue on.

We didn’t get hit as hard as they thought we would. But someone else did. Can we rejoice for our fortunate selves, yes! Can we mourn for our unfortunate neighbors, yes! We can do that too. Like I said, it’s just weird.

I got lucky. My neighbor did not. And isn't this how life seems to repeat itself over and over and over again. Sometimes it's me. Sometimes it's you.

The truth is, we live in a “both-and” kind of world. There is both in our every day. Both in our neighbor’s every day. It’s messy. Maybe just as messy as a hurricane hitting. Maybe. I can’t say for sure as the hurricane missed us this time around. But ask my neighbors in Asheville or Augusta. Maybe they can answer this question better than me. 

What I want to express to you tonight is not that it all makes sense. It doesn’t. I don’t have one single answer. I don’t have one clear way of explaining this all to anyone. I am only writing to say that if my celebrating caused anyone else to feel unseen or deserted in their own devastation, I’m sorry. I’m pretty sure this is not the first time. 

I am certain I’ve posted a picture of my intact family and inadvertently hurt someone who has a family falling apart. I’m sure I’ve celebrated the blessings of my marriage when another was walking the road of divorce. I am positive I’ve posted about a happy child when someone else had a kid not able to get out of bed. These are the things. These are the hard, hard, hard things. We don't always see. Or know. Or understand.

I am dealing with a diagnosis which will probably end in diminished life. Sometimes I read things, see things which make me feel sad. I probably won’t celebrate my 80th or 70th birthday or get to meet my great grandchildren. I probably won’t watch all of my children get married or get to see the births of all of their children. I read about my friends playing tennis or hiking and doing all the normal things. Yet, lately I am struggling to walk. It’s hard. I get sad. Some days, really sad. 

Sometimes the hurricanes in our lives are easily seen. Sometimes not so much.

Oh dear Lord, let us always have hearts to hear and see and embrace those who are hurting. Like I said, I don’t really know how to do it the right way. So I apologize if I’ve ever done it the wrong way. And I pray for eyes that would attempt to see others better. And a heart that doesn’t judge when others don’t see me. 

It can go both ways. But, for the most part, we view most things through our own personal lens. I am so guilty. And for that, I say, I am truly sorry. I know how much we need one another. I know how much good happens when we can walk a mile in the shoes of another. 

It is the VERY reason Jesus came down to earth. To make Himself fully man. To wrap Himself in our flesh. To experience what we experience. To understand and empathize and die a perfect death for us. He isn’t just a random god all up on his throne in heaven removed and resistant to us. No, He is God who loves us so deeply and so profoundly He was willing to come and live among us. To be right with us. To walk alongside us. To understand us. Even, yes, even, to weep with us. 

“And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us, and we saw His glory, glory as of the only begotten from the Father, full of grace and truth.” ~ John 1:14

“Jesus wept.” ~John 11:35

We aren’t going to do it perfectly. But I know I want to do it better.

“Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.”

~ Romans12:15

Just like Jesus did. Like He does.

Plans + Steps: A Health Update

 “A man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps.” 

~ Proverbs 16:9

Plans and steps have been kind of strange words for me lately.

I always thought of these years of older kids or even post-kid-raising as full of potential. I had lots of ideas. Lots of dreams. Lots of plans. I was so content and grateful to be at home full-time when the kids were little. I tried never to take that for granted. But as the nest continued to empty I just really thought I’d have a lot of opportunities outside the home ahead when things slowed down within. And maybe I do. But it’s been a struggle lately to put one foot in front of the other. 

Literally. I am struggling to walk these days. And this is a new turn in my health status. Early this summer I woke one day with pain in my right knee. I didn’t do anything to hurt it or cause a problem. It was just suddenly painful one morning. After a few appointments and scans the doctors determined that I had a complex tear of my meniscus. It didn’t make sense. I haven’t exactly been out doing anything super athletic or rigorous. But I was experiencing some pretty good pain in my right knee and unexplained or not, it was debilitating. 

An MRI showed that I not only had a complex tear of the meniscus, but also that I have significant loss of cartilage and the knee is in a serious degenerative situation. 

I have never had knee issues. Why now? Well, it’s a pretty well known fact that taking the estrogen blocking drugs I take to fight my cancer happen to also cause significant joint pain and deterioration. We need estrogen to keep things healthy and working right in our bodies—Everything from our skin and hair to our brains and organs to our joints and bones. I can release the skin and hair stuff, but the other body parts and functions are pretty important. I’m in a crazy catch 22 of sorts. My cancer is estrogen fed, so we have to block it best we can, but I am incurring some significant side effects because of this blocking. See what I mean? It’s a little tricky. 

Early in July, an orthopedic doctor gave me a cortisone shot and that helped immeasurably. It provided great relief right away and I was able to navigate some fun trips and travel through the summer with the pain mostly under control.  

Unfortunately, in early August, the cortisone wore off and the pain came back. Even worse. And now, strangely enough, it was in both knees. Same thing as before—all of a sudden it hit me and since it's return even walking has been a daily challenge.  Especially early in the day. Getting out of bed is the hardest. Once I'm moving a little I can walk so it looks almost normal, but there's still a good bit of constant pain. I feel like I'm suddenly about 85 years old. My dad has knee issues and is looking at a TKR (total knee replacement). Maybe together we can work some kind of father-daughter deal. Funny, not funny.

We haven’t imaged the left knee yet, but I am assuming it is the same issue. Scans and appointments will take place soon. 

So now I am the owner of two bad knees and I am at loss for next steps. The doctors are also a little at a loss. I am meeting with several, but there’s this weird bridging that isn’t always clear between oncology and orthopedics. We need to address both concerns simultaneously. Surgery or a total knee replacement would mean stopping my cancer treatment for a while. The treatments which seem to be keeping my metastatic cancer sleepy, So, as you can imagine, halting this seems a pretty big risk. As much as the cortisone shot helped, that is only a quick fix, and can’t be used more than a couple of times before it begins to add to the problem. So it really is nothing more than a flimsy type of bandaid.

The diagnosis of cancer in my bones and lymph nodes has been a lot to deal with. The heaviness of my worry over cancer’s progression feels often like it is beginning to just flatten me. I am not myself. I don’t feel like myself. I realize that social media paints a different picture. Let’s just all agree that social media does that for most everyone. But the truth is, I am struggling big time trying to carry this load. I know Jesus carries it for me, but it still requires me to continually hand it over and remind myself that He has it and He has me. It is a daily talking to myself and a constant taking of myself to the foot of His cross.  

It was one thing dealing with the loss of my clean bill of health, but now I feel like I am in yet another state of loss as my mobility and independence feel threatened. 

The things I was distracting myself with in these past couple of years are seemingly being stripped away. It is hard to care for our yard and gardens and chickens and home and family and myself with what’s happening to my knees. And I fear there’s no end. I fear this is the way it is going to be. We don’t suddenly heal from degenerative issues. And, I’ll be honest, the distractions have been really, really helpful. Nothing helps me more with anxiety or fear then going out to my yard and digging in the dirt or burning the dead brush from our woods. I know that might sound weird, but it’s how I am wired. These activities have been a cathartic kind of salvation for me. If I was stressed or dealing with something I went outside and I Did Things. Friends and family like to joke that I work like a man in our yard. I do. I did. Right now, I can’t. And it is kind of breaking my heart. 

And that’s the outside story. Inside we have some things for which to solve. We have stairs everywhere in our home. How am I going to continue to navigate this set up? Is it realistic? What if things get worse? I wake in the middle of the night with these questions coming at me like relentless, pelting rain. I sometimes feel absolutely suffocated by the fear and the what ifs. I have been living with those nasty what ifs since being diagnosed, but lately I am sitting with the “what nows.” What in the world do we do now?

And so I am asking you to pray with us and for us. I am asking you to stay on this journey. We are doing our very best to keep our eyes on our Good Shepherd and to keep placing our trust in His plan and His purpose. We are. It’s just that we feel pretty weak and weary these days as life isn’t looking like what we had hoped or planned. 

I assure you there’s much for which we are grateful. So much. It’s not all gloom and doom. I try to walk that line candidly and honestly with you, my friends. I want to be honest about the hard stuff, but I also want you to know it is my heart’s desire to find the the silver lining and to highlight the purpose in the pain. Not because I have to, but because I want to. I want to find the glimmer in this grave disappointment.

And so that is my main source of exercise and encouragement these days. I have specifically asked that the Lord would remove the “why me? why now?” feelings and give me only praise for His plan and His purpose. 

Maybe you know a little of what it is I write. Maybe you too have been in a similar place of wondering and waiting. A place of questions and concerns. A place of anxieties and unbelievable angst. Maybe the plan for your life is turning out a little different than you thought and hoped it might. There’s a million books out there on the subject, but only we can walk the personal roads of our own dashed dreams. 

So, pain or not, let’s keep walking. Let’s keep journeying together. Even if we can’t walk very well. Even if every step is fraught with fear or pain. Let’s keep going. Keep asking. Keep searching. Keep listening to the words of Jesus who has told us so many good things.

Like, “but He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. … ‘that is why, for Christ’s sake I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” 2 Corinthians 12: 9 + 10

Like, “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.” Isaiah 43:1

Like, “For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” ~ Jeremiah 29:11

Like, “The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” ~ Deuteronomy 31:8

And maybe my favorite in this season I’m in …

“Listen to me … you whom I have upheld since your birth, and have carried since you were born. Even to your old age and gray hairs I AM HE, I am He and I WILL carry you; I WILL sustain you and I WILL rescue you.” Isaiah 46:3-4

Counting Stitches. Counting Blessings. Counting on Jesus.

 

Dearest Mimi Grace,                    September 2, 20024

I began this counted cross stitch one year ago—the week you were born, my dear granddaughter. 

And all this year I have counted and stitched. Counted and stitched. One small x stitch after another. The cloth traveled with me everywhere -- all over the world, in fact. Back and forth to Europe - twice this summer! Out west for a wedding. Up to Ohio for a quick visit. Down to the beach with our family. Over to the Smoky Mountains for a weekend away. 

It traveled with me on countless airplane trips and every long car ride when I wasn't required to be the driver. It went with me to doctor appointments and even once to one of my infusions. I took it everywhere. 

I have stitched sitting on the quiet of my back porch and on the sofa  watching movies or church or elsewhere in the house just listening to music. It has been my constant companion. My sweet connection to you as you moved from month to month, milestone to milestone.

In this first year of your beautiful  life, I have stitched and I have prayed for precious you. I have counted the many blessings you have already brought to our family. I have prayed for all the blessings you will encounter as you grow and develop and become everything God designed you to be. Because though I am the stitcher of this small fabric, He is the One who holds the full tapestry of lovely you. 

The project is finally finished. My stitching is complete, but I promise my praying will continue all the days of your life.  All the days of mine. You can count on that, dear one! 

But even more so, my hope is that you too will learn to count on Jesus. Jesus—the very one who stitched you together—He is your greatest hope. Count on Him. Always. Wherever you go. Whatever you do. Whenever you can. Count on Him.

 That is my greatest prayer for you.

“I am counting on the Lord; yers, I am counting on Him.  I have put my hope in His word.” 

~ Psalm 130:5

With Love, Your Birdy