Our House

We fell in love with this property five years ago. The front porch, the five acres, the thought of adding chickens and gardens and grandchildren—it was a dream come true. Travel down the long driveway and you find yourself nestled away in a sort of sanctuary. The deer, the birds, the tall trees—all of it spoke to me. All of it ministered to my soul. All of it helped quiet the angst when soon after landing here I was diagnosed stage four. I knew it was a place in which, even if I could never fully recover from cancer, I could retreat. 

And retreat I did. When fear or anxiety became too much I would wander outdoors. I’d go into the garden or out to the woods. I’d dig or plant or weed or chop or burn. Somehow it helped. Maybe it’s not every woman’s wiring, but it’s definitely mine. And I probably told my husband about 10,000 times how grateful I was that we had found our way here. How—if we had known this kind of diagnosis was coming, we’d never have sold our last home and bought this big property and house. But because we didn’t know what was ahead—we did. We bought the farm. We bought more than would some day be manageable.

I don’t think we were being greedy. We certainly weren’t trying to keep up with the Joneses. The Joneses probably thought us a tad weird or crazy. No, that was never our intent. We loved the charm and the character and the calm. It immediately felt like home. It felt like ours. And oh how we enjoyed these years of making it our own.

We didn’t know that I’d soon be less mobile and constantly exhausted from medications. We didn’t know I’d be challenged getting around the yard or up and down the stairs. We didn’t know what that stress might do to us. I didn’t know what my husband was carrying and trying to keep from me out of his desire to protect and provide. I just kept telling him how thankful I was to have this and how it was helping me deal with my diagnosis. I kept thanking him for making it possible. I kept praising God for His provision. For this paradise. For this sanctuary. For this incredibly special haven in the midst of cancer hell.

And now Rick is gone. And the house must sell. And, though not comparable, both feel completely impossible. One day life is one thing and in an instant it is blown up and blown away and becomes something we could never have imagined. Not for one minute. So much loss. It is hard to not lose my way in it. Hard to not lose myself altogether. Hard to be anything but lost.

We’ve started showing the house to prospective buyers. This is not my first rodeo, so I’m pretty good getting all the things done for a house showing. Especially as I have kids and friends who swoop in and help me in the most incredible ways. They are quick to come and clean and sweep and do. 

But each time, right before the realtors and the buyers arrive, I always have a little time in the house alone. The kids and friends leave. The house empties and I walk the rooms making sure everything is “just so.” 

And, the truth is, it just isn’t. It is not “just so.” In fact, it never will be “just so” again. Not for me. Not for my family.

I walk from room to room and I can see the happy family within the walls. I can hear all the jokes and all the joy. The holidays and the normal days and the crazy, funny, fierce-loving, loud family days. 

I walk around making certain every little thing is perfectly in place. And every single thing is in place and clean and pristine and folded and fluffed. But nothing is okay. Our loving husband and father is gone. His office, empty. His closet, too clean. His tools, too tidy. His books and his bourbon and his fishing gear all organized and untouched. It is then that I grieve fiercely. I wander through these rooms and I remember how much love filled each one. I remember it all and I cannot hardly bear to be present in this emptiness and non-existence of our family. I cannot bear to see it all so perfect. So cleaned up and cleared out. Like a lovely magazine layout without any life. Like a beautiful house without anyone home. 

This is when the tears stream down my cheeks and the sobs rack my body. When it is empty and waiting for some new family to arrive and assess its value. Someone else with big dreams and big family desires and big life ahead to live.

I know these rooms will be filled again with laughter and love. I know the pitter-patter of small feet and the squeals of Christmas morning magic will happen here again. Some day for someone new this home will come back to life. I just cannot believe our life in this beloved home with our beloved Rick is over. So abruptly. So unexpectedly. So unbelievably. Over.

It’s a house—a material, earthly, temporal thing. It means nothing in the long run. But it meant much in the short. I’ve always been a house kind of girl. I’ve probably cared too much about feathering my nest. It’s been a joy and a passion. Maybe a little bit of an idol. I’ve had to reel myself in a time or twenty. God wired me for beauty and aesthetics. He designed me to love nature and His creation and to bring the outside in. This home allowed me to do that. Doors always wide open, cut flowers on the countertops, empty bird nests in glass boxes and porches with flower pots or ferns in every corner. There was a time when my kids finally declared, “no more birds or botanical prints, mom!” I had more than met my quota. The temporal should never be a temple, but, if careful, these passions can still point us to Him, our Potter, Designer and Creator. 

Home is where we raised our children. Home is where we rooted and built our family “Live your lives rooted and built up in Him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.” Colossains 2: 6-7  That was, and still is, my greatest calling as a mother and our home (our many homes) was the setting and stage of this holy thing. It cradled my calling. How can it not feel like shattered pieces in my hand as I consider selling now to a stranger, to someone who doesn’t know us. Doesn’t know the family who ate meals and played games and watched movies and told stories here.  

This home has held great and grievous sorrow in recent months. But that was a moment in terrible time. That is not who it is. It is a home wrapped in life and laughter. A home full of light and joy. A home which gathers people and feeds souls. Just a year ago a friend and I did a little soul retreat here for a group of women. I opened up my home and welcomed women to spend the day in solitude communing with Christ. Finding quiet corners in the house or yard they used their time journaling, praying and worshipping the Lord. I remember what great pleasure it brought me seeing our home used in such a way. A home can be a holy place.

“Even the sparrow has found a home and swallow a place near your altar.”                                                  ~Psalm 84:3  

It’s been my blog title and hallmark verse since bringing Bella home many years ago. I have always known that my nest~home must be positioned near God’s altar. There was no other choice. Yes, there would be safety, but there would also be sacrifice. There would be surrender. No matter my fingerprints upon it, it would never fully belong to me. It was always His. I, only the caretaker of what it was He so graciously entrusted. I tried to remind myself of that often. To give Him the glory and praise Him for the good and to trust Him and His plan.

This was to be the year our nest would  finally and officially empty. The last child heading off to college. It is inconceivable, and some days quite unbearable, that in the midst of this already tumultuous motherhood season I am also to grieve the loss of my husband. If I’m honest, this dual convergence of emptying feels cruel. 

I titled this post "Our House." And I often catch myself referring to it as ours, when in essence, it is now my house. I'm not sure I will ever get used to moving from our to my in anything. There are so many things to get used to. So many changes.

I will sell this home--my home--and I will rebuild my nest for a new purpose. I have no idea what or where at this point. It’s a bit tricky as a woman with my prognosis and path. I am begging God to do a miracle. To make things new again. To bring beauty from these ashes. I am asking Him to sustain my health and my years and allow me to see His plan and His hand even in this fire. I am begging Him to show me.

“Show me the way I should go, for to you I entrust my l ife. Rescue me from my enemies, Lord, for I hide myself in you. Teach me to do your will, for you are my God; may your good Spirit lead me on level ground.” Psalm 143:8-10

Level ground? It has felt more like unlevel and disheveled these past months. It still feels so. Will it ever not? I can’t answer that. I can only explain that grief continues its course. It is not lined up or linear, it is somedays closer to lunacy. 

But even now, even in this, God is still here. He comes and He quiets. He binds up and He mends. He reminds me of His love for me. He lifts my head. He opens my eyes to the beauty of life. Most days He continues to push me outside to the garden or woods to keep digging, planting, weeding, chopping and burning. My tears mix with the soil while my soul meets with my God. 

He whispers, “Jody, this is not your final home, but only a mere foretaste of what is to come when I call you to your Heavenly Home with me.” Strangely, on March 11th, the day Rick died, that was my devotional. I shared it that morning with our family via text. I’ve attached it below and encourage you to read it. Read also the passage from 2 Corinthians 4. “But we have this treasure in jars of clay …” Yes, jars of clay.

No, we are not meant for this world. We have a place in it for now. A purpose. A mission. Some marching orders. We have a task to tend and a calling to care. But even the most lovely of dwelling places does not compare to what awaits us when we arrive home to Him. Rick is now there. He is home. 

For now, I will continue to nurture and be creative in this life here on earth. I will hold dirt in my hands and I will turn my face to the sun and I will trust the Gardener of my soul as He continues to do His work in me. Digging, planting, weeding, chopping, and burning.

If These Walls Could Speak

~ Amy Grant, 1988

If these old walls could speak
Of things that they remembered well
Stories and faces dearly held
A couple in love
Livin' week to week
Rooms full of laughter
If these walls could speak

If these old halls
If hallowed halls could talk
These would have a tale to tell
Of sun goin' down and dinner bell
And children playing at hide and seek
From floor to rafter
If these halls could speak

They would tell you that I'm sorry
For bein' cold and blind and weak
They would tell you that it's only
That I have a stubborn streak
If these walls could speak

If these old fashioned window panes were eyes
I guess they would have seen it all
Each little tear and sigh and footfall
And every dream that we came to seek
Or followed after

If these walls could speak.

Birdy, Birdy, Birdy

 

Almost every morning, before the sun's rise, I wake to the sound of a cardinal singing from the porch outside my bedroom. "Birdy, Birdy, Birdy." It is almost always the first bird song of my morning. 

"Birdy"  is the name my grandchildren call me.

For the past few months since my husband's death this birdsong has been my morning call to life. 

"Get up, Birdy. Get up and get out of bed. You can do this. You must."

Mornings have been hard. So are evenings. Heck, every time of day is hard. 

But I've always deeply loved my mornings. I've always woken with purpose and drive and fresh desire for the day ahead. Since Rick's passing it has been the strangest thing--perhaps for the first time in my life--to dread the morning. I don't stay in bed all day, but sometimes I want to. I want to pull the covers over my head and pretend this is not my life. This is not the road marked out for me. This unthinkable thing has not happened to me, to my children, to our life as we knew and loved it.

How will I ever fly again? How will I ever wake again ready to embrace my day fully? How will I even begin to face my future without my husband by my side?

Even through this crazy cancer battle I've continued to chase life and dreams and the new day. But now my bed beckons. My body craves numb and nothingness. Like this second picture, I desire only the doors closed, the drapes drawn and the mindless drum of rain on my rooftop. 

Oh, but for that bright red bird singing his loud song outside my porch door every morning. "Birdy, Birdy, Birdy." He (or she) sings my name. He tells me it's time to try. Time to get up again. Time to keep going. I have children and grandchildren who need their Birdy. There is more life ahead to be lived.  

God has plans. He has a purpose. He has promised to restore peace. He knows my pain and He calls me by name. 

Somewhere in our almost 40 years together Rick started calling me J-Bird. Birds were always my thing, but as middle age set in he caught some of the fever. We talked about birds a lot in these past years. He faithfully refilled the feeder outside our kitchen window almost weekly. Without me even asking. It was his thing. I filled it last week for the first time and felt the pieces of my shattered heart so similar to the tiny seeds pouring into the large tube. Somewhat contained in the plexiglass, but fragile and making a mess everywhere. 

God's Word tells us to look at the birds. 

Maybe that means to listen as well. 

"Birdy, Birdy, Birdy.”

“Jody, Jody, Jody.”

Get up and keep going. 

A new day is coming. 

“Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barn, yet your Heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?” ~ Matthew 6:26-27

"Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning." ~ Psalm 30:5

I love this scripture reminding us how God sings over us. I especially love it in the King James Version.

"The Lord thy God in the midst of thee is mighty; He will save, He will rejoice over thee with joy; He will rest in His love, He will joy over thee with singing."~ Zephaniah 3:17

"He will joy over thee with singing." 

I hear their song all day long, all over our yard. 

Sitting on my porch yesterday enjoying the rain and 

the cardinal song,  "Birdy, Birdy, Birdy." 

Note: 

And, yes, I know the stories about cardinals and their connection to loved ones in Heaven. I've read the Frannie Flagg, A Redbird at Christmas as well as others. I'm not sure if this is how it works, but who knows, maybe! What I do know is that God tells us to look at the birds of the air. And so I do. I hope you do as well. 

Healthcare or We Don't Care?

Well, at least the insurance company has deemed me healthy. That’s got to count for something, right? I mean it’s only cancer. We can cross our fingers and hope for the best because someone in a room somewhere decided my PET scan this week is “medically unnecessary.” 

I’m so glad to know it. Perhaps that means my (incurable) stage four breast cancer is suddenly cured? Good thing the person in that room somewhere has decided this for me. I just wish my oncologist would get on board with their way of thinking. She seems to think it is very necessary that I have a PET scan this week. Especially as my last one (last fall) showed some progression of cancer.

I received the denial letter almost 2 weeks ago and have been fighting every day since trying to get someone to help me navigate the mess. It has gone through several appeals. I keep getting transferred to different “we care” type groups. Seriously, they all have the word “care” in their names. These are special escalation teams to help me advocate and navigate. I want to vomit at all the “care” names. Rick used to do all of this for me. Now I’m doing it alone. I explained that fact to a nice lady named Edith on the phone yesterday morning. I explained how my husband died this spring and I have stage four cancer and must figure this all out and fight for my care alone. He isn’t here to make the call. He isn’t here to pull the strings he was able to pull working for this miserable healthcare company for most of his career.

Why must a person battle cancer and also be required to battle her insurance company? That isn’t right. That isn’t okay. That isn’t health care, that is, heck, we don’t care. That is we don’t give a damn about your body, only our bottom line. Why must I need to prove to someone in a room somewhere that I do, indeed, need a PET scan. Why must a stage four patient even have a burden of proof? Shouldn't that disastrous diagnosis count for something? 

Honestly, I’m so over it. 

A year ago, I had another scan denied and Rick made a call to someone he knew and at the eleventh hour it was approved. Just hours before the scan I received a call from a Michelle or Melanie or some nice lady with an M name, who said in a most chipper and way too enthusiastic voice, “Mrs. McNatt, I have wonderful news! Your scan has just been approved! Isn’t that great news?” 

Major phone pause. 

I was so taken aback. I almost couldn’t speak at all. And then the rage came bubbling up inside of me and spewing out across the phone line. 

“I’m sorry, Michelle (or Melanie) that is actually NOT great news. It’s great news for me because I am a privileged woman with a husband who can make a direct phone call on her behalf to the right important individual. But that is not great news for the regular woman who is forced to battle her disease and simultaneously battle her disappointing insurance company. I am in several metastatic breast cancer groups and I read all the time about how hard it is to get things approved and how discouraged these poor women are trying to fight for their lives while fighting for their healthcare. And that is not okay. THAT IS NOT GREAT NEWS. That is despicable. That is unconscionable. That is not healthcare, that is hell care.”

She began to cry. I began to cry. 

I guess I had surprised Michelle (or Melanie) with my outburst, but I had had enough. I told her it hadn’t been my intention to shoot the messenger, but I hoped my comments were recorded and asked her to please share with the people in charge of making these disastrous decisions about desperate people’s lives. 

We hung up and I remember, even in my anger, being so grateful that my husband was able to go to bat for me, pull strings and get things pushed through with our insurance. I was lucky. It shouldn't come down to luck.  It shouldn’t be that way. I shouldn’t get special attention, but I was grateful nonetheless.

That was a year ago. 

Now I know a whole lot better what the regular woman battling cancer faces on the healthcare front. A year ago I didn’t know I was advocating for what would become my life. My new normal. But here we are. 

And can I just say, it’s not like I want a scan. It’s not like it’s some kind of sexy elective surgery or a new pair of shoes. It’s a scan which requires me to drink something radioactive, sit in a dark room for an hour and then place my body perfectly still in a machine. “Perfectly still” is harder than you think these days. Everything inside me is a whirl and a quiet, cold, sterile machine is not exactly comforting. But that’s the easy part. 

Then comes the truly hard stuff — the waiting for results. I am often nauseous the entire time I wait to hear what the scan shows. I wish I could tell you that I’m at peace, but I’m not. I am anxious and afraid and so sick of yet another result I can hardly see straight. And this time, I get to do that alone for the first time since Rick’s death. Sure I have people with whom I can share my news. People who “are waiting with me.” People who are asking and want to know. But not my husband. Not Rick by my side to open the test result in MyChart and read it and feel the vulnerable raw of cruel cancer. It will just be another one of the many things I must do alone.

Oh, please hear me. I am not trying to write a sob story or have a pity party. I just want people to know this is the state of things. Please don’t make it political. It doesn’t much matter who is in the White House, this is just a broken, broken system. I know so many people have these same stories. Mine feels pretty rough right now, but I do realize, I’m not special, others are fighting similar battles. I’m so sorry if that is your experience as well. And if you haven’t had to do this kind of fighting, then please just be aware and be grateful.

Finally, I am going to ask you for your prayers. I almost didn’t share this because rarely do I throw something out that doesn’t have some kind of redeeming value. I don’t like to complain or compare my story to others. But I do want people to know what goes on and I do want to intentionally ask for you to cover it in prayer.

All the time people like to say things like, “God will never give us more than we can handle.” That person is wrong. That promise is not found anywhere in the Bible. In fact, it is a complete misnomer. Hard things are given every single day all over the world. Even if that’s not your story, you’d best believe it. What God does promise is His presence in it. He will be IN whatever it is we are faced with. He will be right WITH us no matter how hard or how horrible. 

“When you pass through the waters,

I will be with you;

and when you pass through the rivers,

they will not sweep over you.

When you walk through the fire,

you will not be burned;

the flames will not set you ablaze.” 

~ Isaiah 43:2

Do you see that wording? It’s not IF, it’s WHEN. You will. I will. We will. Maybe your story isn’t quite as dramatic as mine at the moment. Maybe. But we’ve all got our hard stuff. We do. If not now, then maybe someday. 

WHO you lean on in the midst of it makes all the difference. I’m not sure my healthcare company really cares all that much, but I know my Holy God cares very much. And as I type out these final sentences about this absurd PET scan debacle, I know that is why I was prompted to sit down at my laptop this afternoon and write — to remind myself that God cares and carries. He is with me even when I fight companies and cancer and continued loneliness. He is here and He cares. Not because the word “care” is in His name, but because it is in His person.