tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37831197054985573552024-03-14T12:57:55.183-05:00even the sparrow"EVEN THE SPARROW has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may have her young--
a place near your altar, O Lord Almighty,
my King and my God." ~ psalm 84:3
jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.comBlogger544125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-90609107431236165842024-01-10T16:48:00.010-06:002024-01-10T17:20:19.078-06:00A Light in the Dark<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOHlqh5q_kFKJl_a34xYkvtShK-YAS6nWG8JWVNUd4LRP8RBthf0qQ2U44a8io8ZOBzRNqKiaT6aBKCThd4RRf32JJfJPwI7mLZYAFcRQ9R3eDo1JT1pvFxKAZB4txSl9vQz4EJY_QxXiFx6rd_MP1Uin9fL-YOnmDBeqaGGu75uRvDZt63Tdh4QPGBBM/s4032/IMG_9215.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOHlqh5q_kFKJl_a34xYkvtShK-YAS6nWG8JWVNUd4LRP8RBthf0qQ2U44a8io8ZOBzRNqKiaT6aBKCThd4RRf32JJfJPwI7mLZYAFcRQ9R3eDo1JT1pvFxKAZB4txSl9vQz4EJY_QxXiFx6rd_MP1Uin9fL-YOnmDBeqaGGu75uRvDZt63Tdh4QPGBBM/w640-h480/IMG_9215.heic" width="640" /></a></div><br />Anyone else out there feeling some strange sense of relief that we are finally well into January? Feeling also a measure of guilt. A bit of a betrayer. </span><i style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b>Christmas came this year a little harder than hoped. For a few different reasons. </b></i><p><i style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b>One, It was the “off” year with our married kids so they wouldn’t be home for the holiday. </b></i><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">That missing of kids at Christmas thing isn’t ever easy for any of us as parents. Even though we know it’s how it goes. Even though we are incredibly grateful for the wonderful in-law families provided our married children. We still miss them. Once someone said to me, </span><i style="font-family: Montserrat;">“But, Jody, you have so many children, surely you don’t miss one or two.”</i><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"> Umm, No. That’s not quite how it works. I promise. Anyway, we know we need to share and we do. And we really try not to inadvertently put any kind of pressure on our kids in the process. Well, we try. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">On top of that, Rick and I both had the flu over Christmas. It crashed over me right in time for Christmas Eve. And made for quite a week. So that meant the kids who were planning to come the day after Christmas also could no longer come. Which meant no sweet grand baby girl under my Christmas tree this year. Plans derailed. Again, these things happen to all of us. I get it. But I didn’t like it. And I guess I just let it all get to me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">So many people struggle in the holidays. In ways so much worse than some kid missing or flu getting. Loneliness and lack and sadness and sorrow can grow deeper when the rest of the world is rejoicing. I'm not sure I always got this or empathized very well, but this new season of life with cancer has marked me with a new understanding.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50QH9hoqJYaLosa1vOb0poTNeGhvm4H7wCOmkdjKZHLP_fYFqQo1MoyEQ0332jXu5PHWjYbgznK-Hm_BWzs5IqQ6w4WxyebPzMrZ0ukcVuoqphCjq8KteVGgoMaZX_I4HUy11GwIEgv1EW0Z9uxUYc59SEmxsACla8yUEcK59sRT8Vc-3vECu4O-dJUg/s4032/IMG_9206.heic" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50QH9hoqJYaLosa1vOb0poTNeGhvm4H7wCOmkdjKZHLP_fYFqQo1MoyEQ0332jXu5PHWjYbgznK-Hm_BWzs5IqQ6w4WxyebPzMrZ0ukcVuoqphCjq8KteVGgoMaZX_I4HUy11GwIEgv1EW0Z9uxUYc59SEmxsACla8yUEcK59sRT8Vc-3vECu4O-dJUg/w300-h400/IMG_9206.heic" width="300" /></a></span><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>I’m not really sure I have words to explain how the holidays can feel for someone who has been given a statistical expiration date on the short side. </i></b></span><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I know I am not a statistic. I know God is in control of that date and all my days. He’s ordained them and knows the very number, but still, the weak, frail, human side of me flirts with the future in a not so nice way. And for some reason the holidays highlight this hesitation over my future. I felt this way last year as it was my first Christmas stamped Stage Four and, I suppose, this year, it was much the same. Try as I did, I wasn’t able to completely combat or avoid it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i><b>There’s something so momentous and milestone-ish about a big holiday or a birthday or a brand new year. It's a clear marker of time. </b></i>One Christmas to another Christmas. One year to another year. 2023 to 2024. Resolutions and goals and Happy New Years. And all that “The Best is Yet to Come” stuff. All happening every time 12 months rolls around. All of it feeling so sprightly pronounced. So brightly proclaimed. So big. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i><b>I tried to keep it small. Manageable. Controlled and calm. But between the sadness and the sickness, I let it grow unmanageable and, most definitely, out of control. I found myself in a dark place.</b></i> An angry place. An easily angered place. And though embarrassed this morning as I write, I confess, even a “poor me” kind of place. Pitiful.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I typically look on the bright side. I mostly try to find a silver lining and a sliver of hope. That eternal hallelujah in the hard. I try. But, is it okay to admit that doesn’t always happen as it should? As I want?</span><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Q5gK9tS1lhHBoHamZdnIkzoLr_kfNLjx6empZ77LHf9qQADBgp1i-wpv5GHAmVX04a8w2oN1on9C_yUNVa1o6X0_AmtVxaca7xS-IvhuNLmFzTqIanqYQiCkMMDJSH4jEk8LzAE0tBa3SiY1uhUDpbT1sre9wVL-tt0ZsMvRXFE1vgKj2ncN_ckGUfk/s4032/IMG_9205.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Q5gK9tS1lhHBoHamZdnIkzoLr_kfNLjx6empZ77LHf9qQADBgp1i-wpv5GHAmVX04a8w2oN1on9C_yUNVa1o6X0_AmtVxaca7xS-IvhuNLmFzTqIanqYQiCkMMDJSH4jEk8LzAE0tBa3SiY1uhUDpbT1sre9wVL-tt0ZsMvRXFE1vgKj2ncN_ckGUfk/w480-h640/IMG_9205.heic" width="480" /></a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Maybe you have felt that way at times too. And wondered what’s wrong with you (with me)? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Why can’t I get my emotional health together? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Why can’t I pull myself up and out of this funk, this hole, this hurting.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>Why is the darkness so dark? The anxiety so anxious? The sadness so sad? The struggle so real?</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Is it a lack of gratitude? A lack of grace? A lack of grit? Or perhaps just a lack in general? And, by the way, if you weren't already spiraling downward, that kind of thinking will get you there really fast.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Is this how we all feel at some point, in some place, at some time? Maybe. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Again, I’m embarrassed to admit it. I have so much for which to be thankful and grateful. So much. And I mostly keep that gratitude close by. So who am I to feel abandoned by God or doubt His goodness? </span><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Why am I so easily brought down? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">What is this weakness within me? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>But that is exactly it! There IS weakness within. Great weakness. And God knew that in my design. And He knows it in my day to day. And He sees it in my darkness when it comes screaming or seeping or crashing or creeping. He sees it. </i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br />But, He doesn’t just know it and see it, He promises to meet it even in the very depths of my sorrowful soul.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">He promises. And He proves true. Over and over and over again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Psalm 139. I read it this morning and the words which I love and know well met me in a new and encouraging way.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i>“Even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you.”</i> (vs. 12)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">My darkness. My sadness. My valley. It is nothing for Jesus and His light. Even the darkness will not be dark for Him. There is no place I can go too dark or too deep for my Savior. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i>“If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, EVEN THERE your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.”</i> (vs. 9-10)</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5GeeuKsCil7qeBt_lwJNogrTBdjbM6aqmD0pIdIt1L-nZiFkk00OaFjZjB12ThTchyVubMXMNG2-zo1EmRVzoD-qq5iUy0F-BDgNeZtQiskni-v3GxMgFsdbpNtXcMG2HdOvrqz-asLnLbBc_gzHICkWmo07aV4Tc273sB5C1lNr332h4pfQKWjE1zbQ/s4032/IMG_9227.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5GeeuKsCil7qeBt_lwJNogrTBdjbM6aqmD0pIdIt1L-nZiFkk00OaFjZjB12ThTchyVubMXMNG2-zo1EmRVzoD-qq5iUy0F-BDgNeZtQiskni-v3GxMgFsdbpNtXcMG2HdOvrqz-asLnLbBc_gzHICkWmo07aV4Tc273sB5C1lNr332h4pfQKWjE1zbQ/w480-h640/IMG_9227.heic" width="480" /></a></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Why? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Because He, “<i>created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb … My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I woven together in the depths of the earth. You saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”</i> (vs.13-16)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I could go on and on with this chapter in Psalms. I encourage you to read it. Read it when you are in that pitiful place of poor me. Read it when the darkness feels too dark or the depths too deep or the sadness too sad. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Read it when you feel weak. Alone. Angry. Afraid.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>Do you know why this passage met me so poignantly this week? Because I had been in a dark place. Sometimes we must feel the dark before we can fully see the light. This is true in science, this is true in self. One makes the other better known. A symbiotic revealing which happens in this relationship. And because I have the light of Jesus within me, I cannot stay in the dark places of my soul, no matter how sad. I just can't. Even when I had selfishly decided to go ahead and let myself be depressed, I could feel the flicker of His light within. </i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Oh, dear ones, it is a battle through and through. It is a digging in and most desperate place in the world of spiritual warfare. It is real. It is relentless. It is ruinous. And, I fear, in this God forsaking world, it is running rampant.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">You can read all of the self-help books and make all of the most hope-filled new year’s resolutions, but none of it will make much a difference without knowing that Jesus is in the dark and in the depths right with us. The dark is not dark for Him. Not one bit. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i>“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for YOU ARE WITH ME.”</i> Psalm 23: 4</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">The flicker of this reminder was exactly what was needed to dispel the dark. Nothing else was going to work. No amount of bootstrap pulling up or happy face putting on or bright side looking at. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Only. Only. Only the light flicker and finding of Jesus standing, sitting, weeping, wrestling … and being with me in the dark. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Dancing Script; font-size: large;">"I am The Light of the World. </span></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Dancing Script; font-size: large;">Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, </span></i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Dancing Script; font-size: large;">but will have the light of life." </span><span style="font-family: Dancing Script; font-size: x-small;">~</span></i><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: x-small;"> John 8:12</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTECGEwiXSjP936S1F-WyEnhCJzgnaYh_0mUglFgLZAE_APRWkzbIdRuP9rxUYBGxXNleDF8HQn6YsEkat12N5NvNFeBu3JhW-fy_tCEbZIchx6QWtpEvnJNfEg7pqsE79mHCtvx12TuBsmODnPwSTd_SktijUD65ZzcEggp9fMKzohPzXeILziBRWDY/s4032/IMG_9215.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWTECGEwiXSjP936S1F-WyEnhCJzgnaYh_0mUglFgLZAE_APRWkzbIdRuP9rxUYBGxXNleDF8HQn6YsEkat12N5NvNFeBu3JhW-fy_tCEbZIchx6QWtpEvnJNfEg7pqsE79mHCtvx12TuBsmODnPwSTd_SktijUD65ZzcEggp9fMKzohPzXeILziBRWDY/w640-h480/IMG_9215.heic" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><p><br /></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-43149367862577779772023-12-24T11:47:00.004-06:002023-12-24T11:49:03.837-06:00Unfinished for Christmas<p><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5p2tG1vTXa2RoChwLNX__gvwhSPg9b2ybnDysRfD2V-sDPZd40V5xyOUOOu3hQHGuxA18k8Rh0Skiv3mHXNclZJ9hQ3pDHk-e-xslqHstAUruZyRTEJSXijpFse0P_NJFM-7EKf-C-9S2g4FOvi2aF9iw4Z28m5UtmJrfLjpefAuFPrfuRb_6Ix23nCw/s4032/IMG_8703.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5p2tG1vTXa2RoChwLNX__gvwhSPg9b2ybnDysRfD2V-sDPZd40V5xyOUOOu3hQHGuxA18k8Rh0Skiv3mHXNclZJ9hQ3pDHk-e-xslqHstAUruZyRTEJSXijpFse0P_NJFM-7EKf-C-9S2g4FOvi2aF9iw4Z28m5UtmJrfLjpefAuFPrfuRb_6Ix23nCw/w480-h640/IMG_8703.heic" width="480" /></a></span></span></div><span style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span><span style="font-size: x-large;">I opened my computer early this morning and up popped a calendar reminder: Christmas Day Tomorrow. As if any of us need a reminder. It is almost innate, this internal clock which starts ticking from the time the turkey day dishes are properly put away. I imagine most of us—children and adults—keep track of the weeks and days pretty well.</span></span></span><p></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">And then it is upon us. And we are down to hours. And counting minutes. And we know there are certain things which just won’t get done by this all important day. At least for me there’s always a thing or two I thought I’d accomplish or finish before the 25th arrived. Always.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b>What is it this December that you didn’t complete in time for Christmas? </b></i></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">For me it was a cross stitch sampler for my new granddaughter’s nursery. I started it the week she was born in September and thought surely I’d have it to wrap up for her (and mostly for her mommy) by Christmas morning. I was certain a Christmas deadline would be no problem for me. And yet here we are on Christmas Eve and I’m not quite 50% done. This gift won’t be wrapped up and under the tree tomorrow morning. </span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">There was a day when I’d have stayed up late and gotten up early for weeks at at time to finish. I don’t do that any more. I know it’s just counting stitches and pulling a threaded needle through little holes. It doesn’t require that much. It’s easy enough, but when life isn’t so easy, even counting and stitching can sometimes present a challenge.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b>But, the truth is, every year there’s something that doesn’t get checked off the list. </b></i>For all of us, I bet. Maybe it was getting a family card sent or baked goods for the neighbors delivered. Maybe it was just getting some semblance of ribbons and bows on all the gifts. Maybe it was that one special gift you wanted to find, but kept coming up short. </span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Maybe it’s harder things—Fixing an estranged relationship or bringing back a prodigal child. Maybe it is restoring a restless marriage or surrendering an unhealthy addiction. Maybe it is coming home from the hospital or feeling well enough to get up off the sofa.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Because baked goods and bows don’t much matter when there are harder hurts and deeper discouragements.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i>We will all greet tomorrow morning with something that failed to get done or fixed or repaired or reclaimed.</i></b> Some small, some big. But, dear ones, let that unfinished something serve as a reminder. Though we don’t need a calendar reminder to tell us tomorrow is Christmas, we all need to be reminded that Christmas is Christmas because a baby was born in Bethlehem so many years ago. God came down in infant flesh because there would always be something about us unfinished and undone. Always something incomplete.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>That baby lying in a rough wooden manger would point to our God on the much rougher wooden cross come to save us from all of our own undoing. </i></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Every thing we cannot finish, He tells us, <i>“it is finished.” </i></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Finished because of His perfect love.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Finished by the work of His blood.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Finished for us.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Every broken, bruised and battle-weary thing. Every best intention, hopeful plan and lofty goal. </span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Every attempt to fix. </span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Every desire to repair. </span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Every shred of pain. </span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Every moment of loneliness.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">He came for it all.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">If this Christmas you don’t get all the presents wrapped or the cross stitch sampler stitched or the cookies baked, I want you to give yourself grace and let it go. These are not the things which matter most.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b>But, dear ones, please don’t go into Christmas morning missing the beautifully finished gift of God’s grace and love.</b></i> The best news: It requires no work on our part. Only turning our eyes to Jesus and bowing down before that simple manger in Bethlehem.</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Dancing Script; font-size: x-large;">Merry Christmas!</span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 22px; outline: none;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br style="outline: none;" /></span></p><p style="caret-color: rgb(29, 34, 40); color: #1d2228; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; outline: none;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">[And—lol— for those of you still wondering what in the world even is a cross stitch sampler. Please let me explain: It is needle work which through little thread Xs, creates a picture and includes the baby’s name and date of birth. It is not a very popular craft these days--gone with stenciled walls and gingham country curtains-- but something I wanted to do for our Mimi Grace. It will be finished in time for her first birthday next September]!</span></p><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-55172932585361569582023-12-04T08:41:00.007-06:002023-12-04T15:49:01.973-06:00Instructions for Christmas<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzeqk-ettXDFGe4FKyAPHjssUiYsV2DX9wo5unEx5ZhW9mDLlOE0gOKXo0Gr-UE_3P3uO4jYBxKok0aTtbWjYfZpqt5iR53vLAIxLSKYr9DGUi6ItWBLoLWs8jtmlnKfL4Yo3EoD-yqsPbH7OU3CvIDSuh2atTGkUKGyq_cMZX3639sWjeiWv_yEoTLqE/s2133/garland1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2133" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzeqk-ettXDFGe4FKyAPHjssUiYsV2DX9wo5unEx5ZhW9mDLlOE0gOKXo0Gr-UE_3P3uO4jYBxKok0aTtbWjYfZpqt5iR53vLAIxLSKYr9DGUi6ItWBLoLWs8jtmlnKfL4Yo3EoD-yqsPbH7OU3CvIDSuh2atTGkUKGyq_cMZX3639sWjeiWv_yEoTLqE/w480-h640/garland1.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>Decorating for Christmas is always one of my favorite things. And this year feels much the same, except I keep coming across notes tucked into my holiday storage boxes.</b></i></span></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Last year, after Christmas, as I spent extra time taking things down and putting them away I was facing another round of scans in early January. Scans do something unkind to a stage 4 cancer patient’s mind. Scans mess with us. I’ve always been a person wired to hope for, and even, expect the best, but these past couple of years have introduced me to a new, more skeptical side of myself. Unfortunately, at times, a more anxious side. I still hope for and pray for and ask for the best, but I have this self-protective thing in me which, I notice, on occasion, attempts to manage my expectations and keep in check my slightly Pollyanna-ish personality. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk64-U93ni1yE6NgFqjYR9hL5Mz5xYHjEZtyD17a230qVUF_VavSdEZ_M1_l2vuQxJbRO0xqiLFRw2CCatiVOCEhk1PxjcSvWPZ0bb7bzzA5YaKaLl7pXhgQ6ZhoJbcjgr9DYmWwwTgEvR4YaBH3WSD227pL_f7NaKUSXabETpA-3_tQRndWQnAfdECes/s4032/IMG_7846.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk64-U93ni1yE6NgFqjYR9hL5Mz5xYHjEZtyD17a230qVUF_VavSdEZ_M1_l2vuQxJbRO0xqiLFRw2CCatiVOCEhk1PxjcSvWPZ0bb7bzzA5YaKaLl7pXhgQ6ZhoJbcjgr9DYmWwwTgEvR4YaBH3WSD227pL_f7NaKUSXabETpA-3_tQRndWQnAfdECes/w300-h400/IMG_7846.heic" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">So those scans had me on edge last January. And as I put away my Christmas decor after the holidays I started writing out detailed directions on how to install the garlands on the railings and the candles in the windows. I left written and typed out sheets of paper in the boxes before I stored them in our basement. I left diagrams just under the lids. I told myself it was to make it easier on myself next year, but if I had been completely honest, I would have admitted it was also </i><b><i>for a "just in case" kind of scenario. </i></b>Just in case 2023 happened to go awry. Just in case I wasn’t able to be the person to hang that confusing garland on the front porch or place those electric candles in the right windows. Just in case. We will leave it at that. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Super dramatic, right? I agree. And I really try to stay away from that kind of thinking, except I have a terminal cancer diagnosis and so sometimes that luxury affords me not.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Trust me, my attitude is very positive for a girl wearing these kind of statistical shoes and fighting this kind of undignified diagnosis. Most of the time I have ridiculously high hopes and every reason to believe I am going to keep fighting this disease for many, many years. But, as I mentioned above, there’s this new, slightly more skeptical, side with which I’m constantly confronted. I have statistics. I have too many stories of stage 4 patients. I know things. I see things. I fear things.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">This is what living with stage four cancer sometimes looks like. The part you might not notice. So I'm telling you. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>And the mother and wife and woman in me wants to be ready.</i></b> She doesn’t want her family to throw down that garland in frustration because, “<i>only mom knows how to really make it fit the space.”</i> She doesn’t want the dining room tree ornaments to end up on the family room tree or the stockings to be hung in the wrong order or the wreaths to be on the wrong doors. (gasp!) She doesn’t want a holiday season to come and not be well celebrated because, <i>“only mom knows how to…” </i>I fully realize that all sounds pretty silly in the face of cancer... or really anything. I know none of that stuff is a truly big deal, but in some weird way, for me, it was. Is. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">And I know when the day comes where I may be sick or weak or weary or (hopefully) old, I will want my family to carry on with all the courage and creativity that I’ve spent decades trying to pour into them—cancer or no cancer. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i><b>Because life is brief. There are no guarantees. And as mothers we never know what lessons have really been learned. What traditions will be carried on. What memories made. What things remembered. We can’t imagine not being the one to wrap the presents or choose the yearly ornaments or plan the menu. We can’t fathom a day where we won’t be in the kitchen baking cookies and barking orders and checking on the turkey.</b></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">But for all of us, sooner or later, that day will, indeed, come.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Last year as I removed the ornaments and folded the stockings and wound up the garland and lights, I allowed the King of Lies to take hold of my very human, very fragile, heart. I allowed The Liar to whisper what ifs into my uneasy ears. He scared me. Of course he did. He is really good at his job. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i><b>And, somehow, I thought if I wrote out directions and detailed a lot of drawings, I would be able to silence his insidious plans to sabotage my peace.</b></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">But he is a liar. And those were lies. And satan isn’t in charge anyway. Not one bit. He wants to keep me unsteady and unable. He wants desperately to make me incapable and ineffectual. He’d like nothing more to shut this girl down well before cancer does.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">It’s a truly weird balance as we consider the brevity of our days—each one of us—and yet, place our full confidence in the perfect timing of Jesus. I know. I don't get all of it either. But it bears considering.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">And that’s why I so desperately need the Truth of Jesus. Every day. Every hour. I think of the hymn I heard my grandparents sing so often growing up. They sang it a lot. I think because as older, wiser people, they knew. They got it. Like I know now. Like I (mostly) get it:</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>“I need Thee every hour</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>Most gracious Lord</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>No tender voice like Thine</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>Can peace afford</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>I need Thee, O I need Thee</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>Every hour I need Thee</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>O bless me now, my Savior</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>I come to Thee.”</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>Annie S. Hawks, 1872</i></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I don’t really fault that Jody from early last January. She likes her ducks in a row. She always has. Rick and I laughed a little as we pulled out those storage boxes this year. He was actually pretty impressed with my uber organization. The man loves a good diagram and chart. T</span><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">rust me, it’s not easy to impress a #1 on the enneagram when it comes to organization. But impressed, he was.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Speaking of Rick, he’s been amazing this year in helping me get the house ready. Though he does a ton around our house daily, the holiday decorating was always my thing and he mostly just cheered me on and enjoyed the end result. But this year, he didn’t hesitate to jump in. He has been like my own personal 6 foot 3 1/2 inch elf. It’s been fun and he’s been a fantastic help. But, please, for his sake, no Buddy the Elf jokes! =)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i><b>But this morning as I sit here in this first week of advent and think about my many feeble attempts to be Christmas ready and prepared, I have to kind of laugh at myself. A decorated and ready house is so incredibly insignificant in life. But a dedicated and ready heart is what this season is truly about. It’s eternal life.</b></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">It’s not about preparing my rooms, but preparing room for my Savior and the celebration of His birth. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">In the words of Isaac Watts’ famous 1719 Christmas carol, </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>Joy to the world, the Lord is come</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>Let Earth receive her King</i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i><b>Let every heart prepare Him room</b></i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>And Heaven and nature sing.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">You probably know that carol well, but did you know Watts wrote this hymn based on Psalm 98? </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Sing to the Lord a new song, </i></span><span style="font-family: times;"><i>f</i></span><i style="font-family: times;">or he has done marvelous things; </i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-family: times;">his right hand and his holy arm have worked salvation for him.</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>The Lord has made his salvation known and revealed his righteousness to the nations. </i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>He has remembered his love and his faithfulness to Israel; </i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>a</i></span><i style="font-family: times;">ll the ends of the earth have seen the salvation of our God. </i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth, burst into jubilant song with music; </i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>make music to the Lord with the harp, with the harp and the sound of singing, </i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>with trumpets and the blast of the ram’s horn— shout for joy before the Lord, the King. </i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Let the sea resound, and everything in it, t</i></span><i style="font-family: times;">he world, and all who live in it. </i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Let the rivers clap their hands, let the mountains sing together for joy; </i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>let them sing before the Lord, for he comes to judge the earth. </i></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>He will judge the world in righteousness and the peoples with equity.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">What a beautiful psalm full of resounding seas and clapping rivers and singing mountains. As a lover of nature, this resonates with me deeply. I get it. But, dear ones, we cannot ignore that final verse. <i>“For He comes to judge the earth. He will judge the world in righteousness and the peoples with equity.” </i>He surely will. As much as I'd prefer to focus on the pretty and bright things of Christmas, that day of reckoning is very much a reality. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">As much as we want to prepare our hearts for the sweet Baby Jesus who found no room in the inn, we must also consider what we are doing to prepare our hearts for the Righteous One who will return and who promises to judge. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">We must. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Even at Christmas. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Especially at Christmas.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Even when the images are pastoral and idyllic and so lovely, we must remember being ready has to do with so much more than our holiday preparations. Let all these wonderful details point us to the most important details of all -- our heart preparation. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Joy to the World, the Lord is come.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Joy to the World, the Lord will come again. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">And the good news is we don’t need to do anything. Unlike with Santa, we don't have to be good enough for Jesus. That's why He came. For us. Out of love. For us. We don't need typed out instructions or detailed drawings, we need only bow before The One who truly does make heaven and nature sing and worship Him.</span></p><p></p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwtPUnIvOnqra7tSjkp1JXYGw4mekZuwI7Ke0I1KwhswBZ09zRdRrfac0t7nQyUusQ1KkJsmU2GI0Bm5vVNdQwOdT1vi500Y00Bs-VypfRlN3sytmN8-rZN5QNYzYF5s2UC9WRQg9yJT3yxv8JQtAedccXyxRRbJAsPvIaR5QNMecM_Y_-ojrdhhKZj7s/s2133/IMG_7844.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2133" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwtPUnIvOnqra7tSjkp1JXYGw4mekZuwI7Ke0I1KwhswBZ09zRdRrfac0t7nQyUusQ1KkJsmU2GI0Bm5vVNdQwOdT1vi500Y00Bs-VypfRlN3sytmN8-rZN5QNYzYF5s2UC9WRQg9yJT3yxv8JQtAedccXyxRRbJAsPvIaR5QNMecM_Y_-ojrdhhKZj7s/w480-h640/IMG_7844.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-80346990263264068432023-11-19T18:50:00.001-06:002023-12-04T18:55:31.939-06:00Flight Talk<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ7Y4464YxnY5NQcx_-xi15TevEb9bZPvrSPF4R_0FjxskvWGUqvS_WBqGmEVr1bq1ONBUVPyJXfpXaVwWTbc_vAqcRrVupRPDuuAa4z-fMPVd77pBXelRsAFYnCV2zNfGb1WVN_tKpIsLDhNsKDmz0pLU1cZScPC7na1U9N-Xgrxn-z1Vjk45SHuSxc8/s4032/IMG_7306.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ7Y4464YxnY5NQcx_-xi15TevEb9bZPvrSPF4R_0FjxskvWGUqvS_WBqGmEVr1bq1ONBUVPyJXfpXaVwWTbc_vAqcRrVupRPDuuAa4z-fMPVd77pBXelRsAFYnCV2zNfGb1WVN_tKpIsLDhNsKDmz0pLU1cZScPC7na1U9N-Xgrxn-z1Vjk45SHuSxc8/w480-h640/IMG_7306.HEIC" width="480" /></a></div><b><i>It was an early morning flight from Atlanta to Cleveland today for my cousin's funeral. Being last minute, our seats weren't together. As we approached our place in the plane, Rick asked the man in the seat next to mine if he wouldn't mind switching with him and moving back one row so we could sit together. The man quickly and nicely obliged.</i></b><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Friendly chit chat went on for awhile between our two rows. We established that between the four of us we had one Steeler, one Eagles and two Browns fans. We joked about football and then the plane settled in for our take off. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">After a few minutes of quiet, the obliging man and his new seat mate struck up their own conversation. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I tried not to eaves drop, but my seat was directly in front of them and I couldn't help but overhear a good portion. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i><b>Two men sitting together. Different football teams. Different skin colors. But they began talking. They might have started with football, but quickly moved on to the topic of politics and, yes, even race. They shared their opinions and seemed to agree on most everything. </b></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">From there they waded pretty fast into the waters of religion. No, that's not right. Not religion, but their faith. They talked about Jesus. They talked about what it looks like to follow Him. They talked about their fathers and their upbringings and their families. They shared details of their lives and what led them each to a relationship with Him. They discussed God's word and they encouraged one another as brothers in Christ. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I really wasn't trying to listen, but at some point, I just resigned myself to the fact that I didn't have much a choice.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i><b>I listened. </b></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i><b>Because, sometimes, we should.</b></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">These two men talked for the entire two hour flight. They talked and they laughed. They might have shed a few tears. And it blessed me. It blessed me immensely. It was the very best of what can happen when two people begin talking. When two people begin sharing what's similar and listening to what might potentially be different. One question I heard asked by both of them several times was, "what do you think about this?" </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>I loved that. What if we all sat closer to strangers and asked that kind of question. And then listened. Really listened and let that other person talk. What might this world look like if we had more positive airplane conversations?</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Because we know flight talk can sometimes be pretty weird. You have this time where you are kind of stuck with someone you typically don't know. A forced proximity for a set amount of time. The question always is: Do you engage and invite an opportunity to connect with another human being or do you put on the headphones and hide in your own stuff.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I realize sometimes we all need to put on the headphones and hide out a little. I get that. But not maybe as much as we think we do. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I'm just saying that today two men on a plane from Atlanta to Cleveland connected in a powerful and meaningful way. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">And it was beautiful. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">We are heading to the funeral of my cousin, Marc, today. A diehard Steelers fan, yes, but more importantly, he was a man who loved to converse and connect and debate and discuss. He loved people and he loved to engage with them. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>He would have really loved listening to these two men today on the airplane.</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><p><br /></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-73631481340025362972023-11-15T19:16:00.001-06:002023-12-04T19:20:43.775-06:00Every Reason<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8Y1sNZJNyT689P0raYedbRC-n0nUzuydNfcQmBNUEDqE_h_qXj4I0vf08wtiXiPQj6RRsmcn20234rm7uGRJXictGVmnwwrzUW6jbebfAPbxfLM2OrchCwuH__VF3QarstlYN9VasJN85zh-9JOnq0E6WZO6sbIekimqF32tncKggkhilfGXxxpdU_I/s2048/IMG_7963.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8Y1sNZJNyT689P0raYedbRC-n0nUzuydNfcQmBNUEDqE_h_qXj4I0vf08wtiXiPQj6RRsmcn20234rm7uGRJXictGVmnwwrzUW6jbebfAPbxfLM2OrchCwuH__VF3QarstlYN9VasJN85zh-9JOnq0E6WZO6sbIekimqF32tncKggkhilfGXxxpdU_I/w512-h640/IMG_7963.JPG" width="512" /></a></div>This afternoon I have my next PET/CT scan. It's been 6 months since the last one. I had been doing them every 3 months, but my doctor--in the hope to give me a break--pushed this scan a little further since things looked stable. In the interim, we've monitored in other ways. I have every reason to believe this scan will again show my cancer as stable.<p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Every reason to believe it, but of course anxiety still knocks at the door.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Every reason to believe my doctor knows what she's doing, but I still wrestle with the what ifs. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Every reason to trust Jesus holds my future, but still fear rises and takes my breath away. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Every reason ... and, yet, that doesn't mean I don't feel the weight of this disease and it's daily burden of never ending treatment and consuming thought.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">So, as is often the case, this morning's devotional passage met me right in this very place of struggle --desiring to hope + trust God, but still feeling anxious and unsure. </span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Psalm 42</span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>"My tears have been my food day and night, while men say to me all day long, 'Where is your God?'</i></span></p><p><i style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;">"Why are you downcast, o my soul? </i></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>Who so disturbed within me?</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>Put your hope in God,</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>For I will YET praise Him, my Savior and my God."</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>"My soul is downcast within me;</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>Therefore I will remember you ...</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>Deep calls to deep </i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>In the roar of your waterfalls;</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>All your waves and breakers have swept over me."</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>"I say to God my Rock, why have you forgotten me?</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>Why must I go about mourning, oppressed by the enemy? My bones suffer mortal agony as my foes taunt me saying 'where is your God?'"</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>"Put your hope in God for I will YET praise Him."</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Can you just hear and see the wrestling of David as he writes this Psalm? Tears. Downcast and disturbed, even feeling forgotten ... but I will YET praise you. I will remember you, God. I will remember your character and who you are and what you've promised. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Following Jesus doesn't mean all the human emotions just easily fall away and all is okay. No, it means we have a place to be held when we fall and things aren't okay. A place to go to when we are anxious, unsure, afraid, and yes, even angry. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Jesus can give us a peace which passes all understanding, but He can also allow us to wrestle and wrangle with some very hard things in this life. Nowhere in His word does he promise an easy existence on this earth. In fact, He is pretty clear,<i> “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">And so today I'll scan at 2pm and then we will wait for the results in these next couple of days. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">As always, I would sure love your prayers. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">How can you specifically pray?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">For clear and stable scans.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">For my eyes to be on Jesus.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">For my family. This is about all of us. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">For some tough side effects from current meds.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">For a supernatural strengthening of heart + spirit as I am on this road for the rest of my life. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">And to "Take heart!" Because Jesus has surely "overcome the world!"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Grateful, Jody 🩷</span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-37369279172728979122023-11-11T16:36:00.005-06:002023-11-11T16:44:54.361-06:00The Eleventh<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKQZZIpDErbTz7Qk6xH_f84S-LCjmtZkq0C3uLZY45oydIbIrffZCqgRYk3ZdVtkhrDhF5vARzY1bGJmM5UZo_0TqoTTN_xgQSkNv-im5L1kuMZSr-C2aW8N6PcIZSvLKSkM07jjxidwpLXWTW88KJzlcO9altpPtjKTaQ4F2h0pKUvpZRjy7RteC1YY/s612/IMG_7095.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKQZZIpDErbTz7Qk6xH_f84S-LCjmtZkq0C3uLZY45oydIbIrffZCqgRYk3ZdVtkhrDhF5vARzY1bGJmM5UZo_0TqoTTN_xgQSkNv-im5L1kuMZSr-C2aW8N6PcIZSvLKSkM07jjxidwpLXWTW88KJzlcO9altpPtjKTaQ4F2h0pKUvpZRjy7RteC1YY/w640-h426/IMG_7095.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /><i><b>November 11th. Remembrance Day. Armistice Day. Veterans Day. Whatever we call it, it was on this day at 5:45 in the morning the Allied Forces and Germany signed an armistice agreement bringing World War I to an end. Fighting officially ceased later that morning at the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month. </b></i></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Something in my wiring really loves that tidy “11th” kind of agreement. How precise and clean and controlled. The stuff of storybooks. Strange that it should be the way war came to a close. Feels almost a complete paradox. As if we can ever gloss over something so grueling, so gruesome, and then quickly give it a nice name and a pretty package. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>But that’s exactly what we do. All the time.</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">When we make up. When we fix up. When we tidy up. In our relationships and in our real life.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I wonder about those people living through the first world war years only to be hit so soon with the second world war. Just a couple of decades later. Did they not want to stand up and shout out and shake a fist — <i>“Wait just a minute here! We all agreed to get along.” </i>Didn’t they remember that eleventh hour on that eleventh day in that eleventh month? That agreement?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">How quickly we forget. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">We are war forgetters.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>We, even more so, are peace forgetters. </i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">There is little remembrance in fighting or in trying not to fight. Not when the lines have been crossed and the crosses lined up. We forget.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">We move on after our troubles and our trials and our tiffs. We claim willingness to work hard and harder and harder still. We sign armistice agreements all the day long with our children and our spouses and our colleagues and our neighbors … and then back to war we go. We are warring people. In our countries and in our cul-de-sacs. In our nation and in our nature. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>Like we cannot help ourselves.</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">We claim to be progressive and improved, more enlightened and less entitled, and yet war on we do. Conflict and chaos bedmates to our broken world. We’d like to think we have a measure of control with our policies and positions, but like that tidy 11th-ish package on that November day in 1918, we can call it anything we want, it won’t change the challenges of our humanity.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>We are like dogs who return to their vomit. </i></b></span><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>Even more instinctual than our tidying up, is our throwing up. Throwing it down. Down. Down. Down</i></b>.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">And there is little remembrance at that moment of rage and rift. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">When Jesus gathered his disciples in the upper room for the last supper and the first communion, he offered bread and wine saying <i>“do this in remembrance of me.” </i></span></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: georgia;"><i>And when he had given thanks, He broke it and said, “Take, eat; this is my body which is broken for you; do this in remembrance of me. In the same manner he also took the cup after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.”</i> 1 Corinthians 11:24-25</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">His body broken. His blood shed. For us. For you. For me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Knowing the brutal hours ahead of Him. Knowing the spiritual and physical war surrounding Him. Surrounding us. And yet he offered a most perfect agreement. A New Covenant. A chance for all those who believe to truly have peace. True peace. Lasting peace. Eternal peace. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">He took our place on the cross. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">He died the death we deserve. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">He surrendered His body for the sins we commit. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>Because He knew there’d be no way for us to keep an armistice agreement or any agreement on our own. No matter how tidy. No matter how hard we try. </i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">We are way past the eleventh hour of everything and if nothing else shows us our need for a Savior this day of remembrance surely does. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">So today we give abundant thanks for those who served and sacrificed. But let this day lead us to remembering the ultimate sacrifice of the One <i>"who did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many."</i> Mark 10:45</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><p><br /></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-88948479878604941482023-11-09T18:37:00.001-06:002023-11-09T18:37:55.806-06:00A Biker Brawl & My Birth Story<p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjASqM289Re7VDPkh_Qnnr0nwIRfoUgqR1_2EGPPZ1jrBGx-vyOWRhnXcN4Lcc24MNqhZkb0DrBPlO7ZTWJILOdTE_XmXZ_72bsgcd-onUhfhkpzBlwEfCqWtjVkiR0XY04lPaw_OeJ-znZ4IF3dQow2GDB3VhQHvRIOzKlSCjLWlBPjSxhrNkd07E-z5k/s1183/IMG_6910.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="980" data-original-width="1183" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjASqM289Re7VDPkh_Qnnr0nwIRfoUgqR1_2EGPPZ1jrBGx-vyOWRhnXcN4Lcc24MNqhZkb0DrBPlO7ZTWJILOdTE_XmXZ_72bsgcd-onUhfhkpzBlwEfCqWtjVkiR0XY04lPaw_OeJ-znZ4IF3dQow2GDB3VhQHvRIOzKlSCjLWlBPjSxhrNkd07E-z5k/w400-h331/IMG_6910.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>When my dad was in town a couple of weeks ago he told me a story about the day I was born. It was only vaguely familiar. But such an outlandish tale I was surprised I hadn’t heard more about it in the course of my life.<p></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On November 8,1968—the night I was to be born at St. Alexis Hospital in Cleveland Ohio—there was a massive biker-gang fight nearby between the Hells Angels and a group called The Breed (what a name!). Apparently these two cycle gangs had been at war all year and it came to a head that evening at a Motorcycle Trade Show in the Hall of the Association of Polish Women. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The NY Times said it was “a long-smoldering grudge.” The melee began just after 10pm when the hall was filled with over 800 people. Someone yelled, “Now!” And the brutality began. Knives, chains and clubs were the weapons of choice. The police were quick to the scene with tear gas and rifles, but not before hundreds were injured and many killed. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A few miles away, while my mom’s OB was getting ready to deliver me in the maternity ward upstairs at St. Alexis, hundreds of badly sliced bikers were being carted in the doors below. My dad said it was a brutal scene. All these big, burly men with massive wounds filling the space. Every room occupied. Hallways filled and overflowing. Many died that night. The headline in the Cleveland Plain Dealer described it as the “worst gang battle in US, say police.” </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I can’t help but think about my dad in that situation. Can you imagine? Your baby girl is about to be born any minute upstairs and that kind of craziness is taking place down below? </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Did he keep that information from my mom as she was in the throes of childbirth? I suppose that wasn't difficult as men in the 1960s didn't step foot in a delivery room. But I think of how today we set the stage for childbirth and make elaborate plans focusing on calm lighting and soft music and meditative breathing and support people. And it makes me almost chuckle thinking about that night in the late 60's when I was to be born. No one decides to give birth in the middle of a biker bloodbath.</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxgS07ckR6kF3SL9ecUP67IH1Hc7NgINoiN-RawnycAh2kCmUBkXVZy1Jt3SF6MWwjbNi_yJAvFyrPJMJk58IGoa49_PomMuqg8b5Zc0NKqdTndX6x1yRMBonBuU7MOv_M7_uEfz7r_UuHE94-m3rGA5Nx81JF50kCVWdFZXP4JTuYU44SwlceoO2xNhM/s1284/IMG_6914.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="972" data-original-width="1284" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxgS07ckR6kF3SL9ecUP67IH1Hc7NgINoiN-RawnycAh2kCmUBkXVZy1Jt3SF6MWwjbNi_yJAvFyrPJMJk58IGoa49_PomMuqg8b5Zc0NKqdTndX6x1yRMBonBuU7MOv_M7_uEfz7r_UuHE94-m3rGA5Nx81JF50kCVWdFZXP4JTuYU44SwlceoO2xNhM/s320/IMG_6914.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The scene was so bad it demanded all hands on deck. Needless to say, the obstetrician had to leave my birth and go stitch up the sliced and slaughtered bikers in the hallways below. I guess some lowly assistant was left to deliver me. I wonder how my deliverer felt. Perhaps thankful they were called only to welcome into the world a newborn baby instead of being forced to tend to the war wounds of highly aggravated gang members. Or maybe not. Maybe they were disappointed to be tasked with something so mundane as a baby born. Maybe they would have preferred the action downstairs. Who really can say? <p></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Reading through the articles, I found many choice pieces of writing. One of my favorites was a comment made by a character named "Sex." That's what the motorcycle world knew him as, his real name being Arthur Zaccone. Sex, well--perhaps we should call him by his given name, Arthur--told the reporter covering the story, <i>"I knew something was going to happen when we saw some Breed from New York and New Jersey and none of them had their old ladies with them."</i> The newspaperman went on to explain that "Motorcycle outlaws always call their wives or girlfriends "old ladies." </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL8Yn9P2TFXlnlmNG55JjPEaIh0MC9kYrlDyhahH2G3RiQctnxC546Q8WgqjTR60no4asSfrEtJA1g8Vthwv65roF0ZbqLFlX-jKE9mdCp-fEAE5cmGau7lwiwzO8q6P9BpmQhTUb4t3Fyq8Ya100nR5Y9U-ENjS0dRdrX1tHBkIe1YDdAdhQprZiqHvU/s1659/IMG_6915.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1659" data-original-width="1214" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL8Yn9P2TFXlnlmNG55JjPEaIh0MC9kYrlDyhahH2G3RiQctnxC546Q8WgqjTR60no4asSfrEtJA1g8Vthwv65roF0ZbqLFlX-jKE9mdCp-fEAE5cmGau7lwiwzO8q6P9BpmQhTUb4t3Fyq8Ya100nR5Y9U-ENjS0dRdrX1tHBkIe1YDdAdhQprZiqHvU/s320/IMG_6915.jpg" width="234" /></a></div>Another paragraph offered this description of a couple of neighborhood bystanders, "Two old men came out of their houses, and stood in shirtsleeves in the falling snow, staring at the Cleveland Pneumatic Tool & Co parking lot at E. 77th Street and Marble Avenue." Can't you just imagine those men standing out on their driveways (in shirtsleeves) with snow falling gently around them and a gang fight heating up violently before them. "Old Men Shake Heads Sadly," was the article's poignant title. <p></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After hearing my dad tell this unbelievable story, I continued to think a lot about it. Coincidentally, the following week I was scheduled to share my life’s story in my Bible study group. In the desire to know each other better, we have been taking time to do so this month. My dad's telling of this crazy birth tale seemed perfect timing. It would be a tremendous opening to what I was planning share with my group. So jotting down a few notes, I decided to research it a bit further. It took no time to pull up the article from a digital copy of The Cleveland Plain Dealer. There it was in black and white and plain as day … the gang war did happen just as my dad said. All the gory details were included in these digital pages and, mesmerized, I poured over them in disbelief. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But the most amazing thing I learned in my research was that it wasn’t actually my story. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As much as I wanted it to be, it wasn’t my start to life. When I finally looked closer at the article, the date jumped off the page ... March 8, 1971. That was the day after my younger sister, Jess, was born. Oh my gosh, it was HER story! </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That dramatic entrance to the world didn’t belong to me, it belonged to my younger sister. Of course it did! I was at first disappointed and then couldn't stop laughing. As parents are so apt to do, my dad had gotten our stories confused. The event had happened. And it had happened to my parents, but it was my sister being born on that chaos-filled night, not me. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And though I do love a good story, I must, unfortunately, relinquish this one to her. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But doesn’t that fact make this good story even a little bit better? I feel like the mistake of it makes it in someways even more interesting. Maybe it's because that is so often how life works. Our stories blend and combine and, sometimes, get confused. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Has that ever happened to you? It happens to me all the time. I’ll be trying to remember something and I can’t quite get all the details correct. I can’t quite picture who was there or where we were or what exactly happened. I have to be careful of embellishment. I have to be careful to correctly report. I have to be careful of the narrative I am allowing myself to believe. In full disclosure here, I sometimes can be prone to making bad things worse and good things even better. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It could have something to do with growing up in a good size family. We all blended together. We knew to answer to any sibling name when our parents called for us. <i>“You know who I mean!” </i>We knew we had to speak up to be heard. We knew we had to forge our own way and make our own plans and take charge of our own stories. There can be a lot of good in that kind of growing up. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm pretty sure my kids kind of feel the same way. I’ve heard them too many times say,<i> “No, mom. It didn’t happen quite like that.”</i> And then they have to remind me of the correct details. I don’t always have a digital newspaper article to pull up, but I do have kids who help keep me on track. </span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Kind of like that Progressive Insurance "replay” commercial that’s been airing on television so often. So funny, by the way.</span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This "old lady" can tell you that the 55 years of my life have been filled with stories. Stories which I do own and can confidently claim. I might not have a dramatic birth story which includes a biker-gang brawl, but I have a story which God is clearly writing. And as I sit here this morning after my birthday, I am overwhelmed with the many, many sweet pages God has written all over my life. Yes, there have been some painful ones as well, and I don’t know exactly what the next chapter brings, but I know my God is the Perfect Author and He uses my story (and your stories too) to tell the much greater story of His. </span></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And for that I am thankful. </span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbXz9PDTmiFGJroWOZMKaVmwjgHhjmOALunVGzAQrX2WrXh6C04XtG02GEURKbALJTwwJePJEV2pmXAZK4j54P1qSD5wkol_45yUmaErDdpjLTcJGPzb-SyDpJaj9TMOhZmfgZbuf028klCdzOie26_oUi0fowbDQergTBYRlMQGCO8ohw5cgD1odyTs/s1151/IMG_6911.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="926" data-original-width="1151" height="514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAbXz9PDTmiFGJroWOZMKaVmwjgHhjmOALunVGzAQrX2WrXh6C04XtG02GEURKbALJTwwJePJEV2pmXAZK4j54P1qSD5wkol_45yUmaErDdpjLTcJGPzb-SyDpJaj9TMOhZmfgZbuf028klCdzOie26_oUi0fowbDQergTBYRlMQGCO8ohw5cgD1odyTs/w640-h514/IMG_6911.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjac0UgcxojD0Hc-yPrAhIptF3ZQuP2OXC1ph5hyphenhyphena1CNtoDVstVRe3cyEFW2cjbZAoXE3jCc9ztugBUsw2kc4Dkov7H2qiNI4krE6dWLnSB_xCqrobrpC8IGlUi64MQnMF_sJoFtdRI1r_ku5qVJUFnX6w9mycNVTCeNKIpxjrTn7ZgtsuH46uz_tlpyC8/s1874/IMG_6913.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1874" data-original-width="1284" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjac0UgcxojD0Hc-yPrAhIptF3ZQuP2OXC1ph5hyphenhyphena1CNtoDVstVRe3cyEFW2cjbZAoXE3jCc9ztugBUsw2kc4Dkov7H2qiNI4krE6dWLnSB_xCqrobrpC8IGlUi64MQnMF_sJoFtdRI1r_ku5qVJUFnX6w9mycNVTCeNKIpxjrTn7ZgtsuH46uz_tlpyC8/w438-h640/IMG_6913.jpg" width="438" /></a></div><br /><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><br /></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-15327228733404463412023-10-26T09:15:00.002-05:002023-10-26T09:17:20.008-05:00We've Raised Awareness, Now it's Time to Raise the Bar<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0aK006VblHIMfgs-xpwLOwMDhyphenhyphen-g2unOLv5iA9w9JEDQPTbshFDvYxxP8lb_XNS740swyT7-X7LsiHYFdmSHxwkel2ABbFyMFT453X5jLFMBYPfHvPJAWR6NOYoTU90OeOsBom6CrWUWmBeWJeziBszk69DWcEp-h0DtO1aLjqJ1k83trzNt-khNB120/s294/MetastaticBreastRibbon.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="294" data-original-width="229" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0aK006VblHIMfgs-xpwLOwMDhyphenhyphen-g2unOLv5iA9w9JEDQPTbshFDvYxxP8lb_XNS740swyT7-X7LsiHYFdmSHxwkel2ABbFyMFT453X5jLFMBYPfHvPJAWR6NOYoTU90OeOsBom6CrWUWmBeWJeziBszk69DWcEp-h0DtO1aLjqJ1k83trzNt-khNB120/s1600/MetastaticBreastRibbon.png" width="229" /></a></div>As "PINKtober" begins its final week,<b><i> I’d like to share why this isn't necessarily an easy month for some women with stage 4 breast cancer</i></b>--this month where we see the breast cancer pink ribbon on everything from tennis apparel to trash cans ... from police cars to every form of packaging. <p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I've always been on board with raising awareness and heaven knows I love a good event. But friends, I've been struggling in the past weeks as everywhere I turn I see pink. I would really love a chance to help others see, maybe not red, but just a little more clearly. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">It's hard to explain--I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it--but allow me a minute to at least attempt what it feels like to sit on the other side of this not so rosy line. I’m still processing, but I’ve spent a few weeks learning about why women with stage 4 breast cancer aren’t exactly excited about all aspects of the PINKtober campaign. It’s not just the constant pink reminders of our incurable disease, but it's, more so, for many, some misleading messaging and, unfortunately, maybe even the misallocation and misrepresentation of funds raised. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Yes, the pink ribbon campaign has done amazing things to raise awareness and dollars, <i><b>but most people do not realize how little of that includes stage 4 breast cancer. </b></i>The percentage is in debate--Some say less than 2% ... others claim it's now risen closer to 7%--But, regardless, 2% or 7% going toward research for stage 4 breast cancer is simply not enough. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>Metastatic Breast Cancer (MBC), also called stage 4, is the ONLY breast cancer which kills and yet only a tiny percentage is allocated for this research. </i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Read that again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i><b>Furthermore, 1/3 of women who "beat" early stage breast cancer will at some point in their life become stage 4/metastatic. Yes, you read that correctly, ONE-THIRD. </b></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Like me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">No one really likes to hear my story because it doesn't fit any of the things we know or like to believe. 12 years ago I was "early detected" and “barely stage one." I had pretty minor cancer and, yet, chose aggressive treatment. Did all the things. Fought like a warrior. Was told I was "cured" and had "beaten it." Was called a "star patient" and assured because of my early detection and fighter mentality I WAS "the poster girl for beating breast cancer.” I remember my oncologist saying early on, “Jody, you’ll be just fine. You’ve nothing to worry about.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">His words sometimes haunt me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>I had less than 1% chance for this beast to reoccur. </i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">But, against all the odds, it did. It reocurred.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i><b>Now as a woman with MBC (stage 4) I will never "be cured" or "ring the bell" or "kick cancer's ass." Nope. Never. And so all that warrior and battle and victory talk is tricky for women like me. The messaging in this month makes it sound like if we (only) fight hard enough we can achieve victory.</b></i> The problem with this is that the opposite then also feels true when we lose--and those of us with stage 4 will lose. “According to the American Cancer Society (ACS), the 5-year survival rate after diagnosis for people with stage 4 breast cancer is 28%.” Another not so gentle way of saying that is 72% of women diagnosed stage 4 will not live past five years. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">So what does that mean in the face of all this pink? We didn't fight hard enough? I don’t know. At best, it's confusing. I do know our main hope (now) is not going to be curing cancer or kicking its ass, no, it’s going to be buying time and praying for more treatment options to give us more years. That takes research. That research takes dollars. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>In the meantime we hope to prolong life.</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">And that is exactly why I don’t “look” like a stage 4 patient. That’s a topic for another post, but I know this confuses some people.<i> "Well, gosh, Jody’s busy planning events and posting photos of her chickens and she has all of her hair. Seems like she’s doing great. She looks good. Surely she can’t be THAT sick." </i>Well, it’s because, for women like me, it is no longer a sprint to be healed, it’s a marathon to stay alive. It’s the long game. We strategically are given medicine and treatments to keep the cancer at bay and keep us living life. At some point cancer will outsmart my current treatment and those meds will fail me. And at some point, I’m sure you’ll see me looking a whole lot more like a stage 4 patient. I know that’s a lot to process. I’ve had conversations with many of you. It doesn’t make sense. It’s easy to forget (for you maybe, not for me). But trust me on this, I know what I’m talking about. There isn't a silver bullet when it comes to stage 4. MY PLAN is for the treatments available to work well for me and give me LOTS and LOTS of years, but I have learned too much, I know if that's what happens, I will not be the statistic, I will be the outlier.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>Sometimes learning things is hard.</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I am also learning to understand why PINKtober isn’t an easy thing for women with MBC. As this has, unfortunately, become a big part of my life now, I spend a good amount of time connecting with others walking this same walk.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I'm in several (Facebook) groups with thousands of women with MBC. I read their stories and struggles every day. I cannot explain to you the pain and sadness. Women who are alone and unable to work. Women who can't pay for treatment and have to fight with insurance companies. Women who bounce from one brutal treatment to another knowing it will never end. They will always be in treatment. Forever. Women, literally, at the end of their rope. Heartbreaking doesn't begin to explain it. There is nothing festive or celebratory or rosy-pink about it. I don’t really put myself in this category because I AM still living a pretty normal life. Yes, lots of side-effects and, yes, lots of mental/emotional/anxiety battles, but also lots of wonderful stuff too. I’m grateful. And lucky.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>But, I don't have to tell you how hard it is for the women who struggle to see companies using the pink ribbon as a marketing ploy to tug at heart strings and increase sales. </i></b>And, yet, we know that's exactly what happens in some cases. Certainly not all cases, but in some. It feels like gross commercialization. At times it’s hard to see some of the flippant, casual, and sometimes crude, comments made and posted. Those can hit differently when you're fighting for your life. It’s also agonizing to see all the hype and excitement over pink bows and pink socks and pink tennis skirts for a fun-feel-good-event. I once wore the pink tennis skirt and played in the pink tennis tournaments. Now, as stage 4, I am having so much joint pain and fatigue I can’t imagine I’ll be out on the tennis courts ever again. Instead, I brush by my tennis bag every single day when I walk through my garage and have to wonder.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I’m not saying it’s all wrong. Like I stated earlier, there are some great things which have been achieved in raising awareness. We are certainly ALL AWARE. I’m just saying there’s more to the story. We need to be more aware of asking the question-- WHY aren’t more of these funds raised going toward the breast cancer which kills women? Especially knowing that 1/3 of all women who have "beaten" it, will progress to stage 4 --even the very best case scenarios, like me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b><i>Early detection and awareness are great, but, I was both early detected and (more than) aware and there is not one single doctor who can explain why my breast cancer returned. Not one. Two of my three oncologists didn’t believe it. One of them told me to “go home and not worry about it,” even after the scans showed lesions. Crazy, I know.</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Last week, out of my own wrestling, I asked the question to the specific Metastatic/Stage 4 groups of women I am in on Facebook. I simply asked this --</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">"Why is PINKtober hard for so many of you?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I received an unbelievable amount of stories and responses to that question. Hundreds, in fact. Most all of them explaining that they "dreaded" this month and felt "assaulted" by the misrepresentation and “gross commercialization” of the pink ribbon. These are women who are in the darkest, deepest trenches of breast cancer. Women fighting for a few extra years of life and dealing with one awful treatment after another knowing there won't be an end ... until there is.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I think their voices need to be heard. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">One woman in this group shared an article she had written on why more stage 4 research MUST be the goal: </span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>“While the pink ribbon is well-known for representing the fight against early-stage breast cancer, it is not inclusive of stage IV.</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>It’s a sad fact that today, nearly everyone knows someone who’s had breast cancer. Yet there’s one fact not everyone knows: </i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>30% of people with “cured” early-stage breast cancer who’ve “beaten” the disease will eventually see it return as stage IV, also known as advanced or metastatic breast cancer (MBC). </i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>That means the disease has spread to other parts of the body, a diagnosis that carries an average life expectancy of around 36 months. While the average survival rate of a breast cancer diagnosis is 90% over five years, that statistic tumbles for metastatic breast cancer, dipping to 29% over five years.</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>Many women with metastatic breast cancer will live only a handful of years. But about one-third will live at least five years after their diagnosis. And there are outliers who live for 10-15 years after such a diagnosis.</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>MBC is the only form of breast cancer that kills. </i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>Yet while MBC claims the lives of 115 people in the U.S. daily, less than 7% of US breast cancer funds raised go toward researching new treatments for it. </i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>Worldwide, more than 685,000 people die of MBC annually. </i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>Those shocking statistics explain why more and more people are embracing a reimagined breast-cancer-awareness ribbon that goes beyond pink — there’s no surviving or “beating” MBC, just buying time via treatment. </i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>The pink ribbon has done a lot of good. It has reminded people to get screened, and it has helped to raise a huge amount of funds. But at the same time, it has been used to raise money for purely corporate pockets, including the pockets of several prominent breast cancer charities. </i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>It has become a symbol of the idea that everything will be OK, breast cancer is only an annoyance, just a year out of your life, and you'll go on happily from there. The pink ribbon as a brand is a misrepresentation of the truth of breast cancer. </i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>And, most importantly, it is not a cure.</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>What the ribbon should represent is the need to fund medical research in order to save lives.”</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>Pink is not a cure.</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>Research can and has saved lives.</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>With more and more new treatment options, patients like me have a better chance to live longer.</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>Thus a tricolor ribbon, for metastatic breast cancer, aims to raise awareness for the need to direct funding toward the development of life-extending treatments. </i></span></p><p><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Montserrat;"><i>In it, green represents the triumph of spring over winter, life over death; teal symbolizes healing and spirituality; and a thin pink-ribbon overlay signifies metastatic cancer that originated in the breast.”</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Dear friends, please don’t view this post as sour grapes. Sure, I have some pretty sour moments, but mostly, I do have a lot to be very thankful for. I spend most of my days really trying to focus on the beautiful and the blessings of each day. Those of you who know me, know that my life is truly in God's hands. I trust Him with it. Completely. But I also have felt a prompting to go ahead and share some of my newly gained perspective. I wish I didn't know so much. I wish this wasn't my story. But it is and I believe that our stories and our journeys and our lessons learned are meant to be shared.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i><b> We've raised awareness, now it is time to raise the bar. </b></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">One last thing--there's an organization which does use its dollars raised for MBC research and funding. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Please check out the METAvivor organization. <a href="http://METAVIVOR.ORG" target="_blank">METAVIVOR.ORG</a></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-70765081052234253842023-09-19T19:25:00.001-05:002023-12-04T19:41:47.956-06:00Thank Heaven for Little Girls<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6rc22sLiconj_jPW_ZzOX0YSQVnkqxrWePzfTgFWbzkuxf0dlQge2_PBBNaPluTaZXzzbMhYXjfrniYDzU3SF_eU_yv_iozXsxAbg7Jt-jV39Jopt590q8OhlhcvxjdXQueiwzHL-THLCpzfY17zf2EYfgSfJGVEd7yigrAvAselsN2iOI204xAdwy2c/s1286/IMG_7964.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1286" data-original-width="1286" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6rc22sLiconj_jPW_ZzOX0YSQVnkqxrWePzfTgFWbzkuxf0dlQge2_PBBNaPluTaZXzzbMhYXjfrniYDzU3SF_eU_yv_iozXsxAbg7Jt-jV39Jopt590q8OhlhcvxjdXQueiwzHL-THLCpzfY17zf2EYfgSfJGVEd7yigrAvAselsN2iOI204xAdwy2c/w640-h640/IMG_7964.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>In the past few weeks I got to spend--not nearly enough--but a good amount of time caring for my new granddaughter, my daughter, and my son-in-law. </span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I didn't do anything all that ground shaking. Didn't close a big deal. Didn't publish a novel. Didn't get my name in the newspaper. Didn't rescue a puppy. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Didn't even hardly get all the laundry finished. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">But I did this little thing called caring for family, and, for me, it wasn't a little thing in the least. For me it was probably more like the thrill of my year. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Maybe my decade. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">You think I exaggerate? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Though prone to an occasional exaggeration every now and then, in this case, no.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I assure you, a thrill. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgShvGbBWDYeBhrmbzL2GmDZa18DsbUjAMADq3QPAj2tU39jl5kO65l2LpFA03VVZr6QLC8KLwn9KsbwX_TqvR1XNCRyAbf8LIyiQrnyVEsC_5BJJEOqYPR4EbsVrIzcofMTUTutC7CHNJFuvSH3KSXLIfAakhDTAV2WJP3AydTixLiNAG32Lg6Ieax2v0/s1286/IMG_7965.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1286" data-original-width="1286" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgShvGbBWDYeBhrmbzL2GmDZa18DsbUjAMADq3QPAj2tU39jl5kO65l2LpFA03VVZr6QLC8KLwn9KsbwX_TqvR1XNCRyAbf8LIyiQrnyVEsC_5BJJEOqYPR4EbsVrIzcofMTUTutC7CHNJFuvSH3KSXLIfAakhDTAV2WJP3AydTixLiNAG32Lg6Ieax2v0/s320/IMG_7965.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br />Being there for my first girl as she became a mom to her first girl, and then to watch her tenderly (if not a bit tiredly) navigate these first sacred days of motherhood ... I mean, seriously. No words for the way it all made my heart swell and swoon and simmer and melt.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Truly good. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">A gift. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">A grace.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Thank heaven for little girls. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">And big girls. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">And the beautiful mother~daughter relationship that God saw fit to give us here on earth to make life a little bit sweeter, hard things a bit more tolerable, heavy things a little bit lighter, wonderful things a little more wonderful. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Hanging on Mimi's nursery door is a little door hanging pillow (yes, that's a thing) declaring this very sentiment--Thank Heaven For Little Girls. I found it at a baby boutique (this is also a thing) and gave it to Emily as a shower gift. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">About 28 years ago I had hung almost the very same pillow on Emily's nursery door. I had saved hers all these years. Why? I don't know, I guess I'm a saver of door hanging things. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">But last week, while visiting them, I knew I had tucked it away so that one day I could put it on my adult daughter's bedroom door as she slept. (Well, sort of slept). </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">While staying in their home, I took a special grandma kind of delight walking past both of their doors draped with tiny pillows declaring thanks to God for their lives. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Door hanging pillows or no door hanging pillows, doesn't much matter, but giving thanks to Him in heaven is a gift most holy. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Truly, thank Heaven for little girls.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvz5Sa3kWdGEngxKbhSQSHBxD1JAYRQrYIoT6P1qirgzO2Ag9X3CKWajZF2XuC9vNDksuUOK53jou3ZQ81nPI6pqb0YaRvZnQHYfVRog50oL57JR01h8CEh9FRDnfMyNLIJWpfylqNMSy1GJMQIv53ABy_FGJHI54_RR87pgZ-avYch_ANfDes-hsScs8/s1286/IMG_7966.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1285" data-original-width="1286" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvz5Sa3kWdGEngxKbhSQSHBxD1JAYRQrYIoT6P1qirgzO2Ag9X3CKWajZF2XuC9vNDksuUOK53jou3ZQ81nPI6pqb0YaRvZnQHYfVRog50oL57JR01h8CEh9FRDnfMyNLIJWpfylqNMSy1GJMQIv53ABy_FGJHI54_RR87pgZ-avYch_ANfDes-hsScs8/w640-h640/IMG_7966.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1286" data-original-width="1286" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcZLdVMQJGGBIP9Dovoj_XVKHXC3j4827UjqEsq5IZIKBgaZB7pm2fK3m-4KAAHFE2LK5uyS94o2NngAZ_i2o8PoJUHOtL_LQexarpodfcOdCP14rksLAqemCrvW9hI7FCEGCIUZVNI_gu85Ga-KfMcE4A66PJuzHmBV3KIkFxw3cVz1PHySW44L-1MdY/w640-h640/IMG_7972.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUY9ho_7jRf05YXdbJ3ZCZJsyE_kng_15TJ4zGphBK4_ZztMuSVE6IMPF9yGacJRcPYA5T9OJj6P2DCr7SspX-Aqi6ufnU1DByeiGzYOWYXeJexjLnoaLLcXXjzLQhLkMuJhFmtyjfEiPqaKsMJPbq88aceREA_NIfQsT_OCrxjlLsIqgOiFHO__5Qxg/s1286/IMG_7973.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1286" data-original-width="1286" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcUY9ho_7jRf05YXdbJ3ZCZJsyE_kng_15TJ4zGphBK4_ZztMuSVE6IMPF9yGacJRcPYA5T9OJj6P2DCr7SspX-Aqi6ufnU1DByeiGzYOWYXeJexjLnoaLLcXXjzLQhLkMuJhFmtyjfEiPqaKsMJPbq88aceREA_NIfQsT_OCrxjlLsIqgOiFHO__5Qxg/w640-h640/IMG_7973.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><p></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-85641079929703271582023-09-03T19:46:00.001-05:002023-12-04T19:56:33.271-06:00Mimi Grace<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1_nqIJOKKEt_aPH710eWaKoUo9o9PM3SSuFRRGy8NOCDJQ-fq5gCOhTqYZx8I0hY-OQTqqYLmv5mU_pPHpP7h7CkmoGZSepFsLn9M7RmshzFBiz-TS3Dryqi7jEfuwdDYW2Ao6EbJY_BxhfeiwJWgVYJxxXJI38n0Ppl9Wwquc7acPjGYJPkc7m45ylU/s1500/IMG_7974.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1332" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1_nqIJOKKEt_aPH710eWaKoUo9o9PM3SSuFRRGy8NOCDJQ-fq5gCOhTqYZx8I0hY-OQTqqYLmv5mU_pPHpP7h7CkmoGZSepFsLn9M7RmshzFBiz-TS3Dryqi7jEfuwdDYW2Ao6EbJY_BxhfeiwJWgVYJxxXJI38n0Ppl9Wwquc7acPjGYJPkc7m45ylU/w568-h640/IMG_7974.JPG" width="568" /></a></div>It is our absolute joy to introduce to you our granddaughter, Mimi Grace! <p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">She made her grand entrance early Saturday morning and we haven't stopped smiling.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">We are absolutely smitten with this precious little lady. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">And, of course, so very proud of our Emily and Austin. They are going to be just amazing parents. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">The grandchild thing is something marvelous. First, because we marvel at this new life and next generation. But secondly, because, in addition to her new life, we are also marveling at the chance to watch our own children do something so good, so wonderful. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">It's like this double blessing of goodness I wasn't prepared for. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Rick and I are overwhelmed with the beauty of this next season. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Thank you Lord Jesus for this indescribable gift. </span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p><i><span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"> "Every good and perfect gift is from above, </span></i></p><p><i><span style="color: #d5a6bd; font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"> coming down from the Father of lights." James 1:17 </span></i></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Birdy and Grampa Bear love you, Mimi girl!</span></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPN8zn-jqCpcsyrYXvubPZLv9srSczKgcl2Y6lsdKYCPTKupX-tnhO66R1vQB-3zGZld2tA8l1sEnVOnGey-30lV6FIs1qD5oXv1CpvBisv3-lRCsMiuUctK47HyapFFd-P3RcIx175Io3Bhd-BlkY6E1J2H_Lp8SAKrsqMTpc12H57_bGjDwJqx5jvLQ/s1500/IMG_7976.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1333" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPN8zn-jqCpcsyrYXvubPZLv9srSczKgcl2Y6lsdKYCPTKupX-tnhO66R1vQB-3zGZld2tA8l1sEnVOnGey-30lV6FIs1qD5oXv1CpvBisv3-lRCsMiuUctK47HyapFFd-P3RcIx175Io3Bhd-BlkY6E1J2H_Lp8SAKrsqMTpc12H57_bGjDwJqx5jvLQ/w568-h640/IMG_7976.JPG" width="568" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1333" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUl7NQca6qQP1bLplMSVO2UY3Eqmo1aHp-y-MzCIjeKDD_xzyto5l_XUJXTENSaAdRGF2rMdc46A9scIABcCJqgc1CZc8vx5m4frZGccd8fAoI308FlzTfiJoVifPK7MD_NrWDExWm_g6WNJsdoO5hAH-RAEq1lO1jBEzhsKp_CyBQS7fqFEr1_8YFPPg/w568-h640/IMG_7981.JPG" width="568" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-4585391201030579592023-08-23T19:40:00.002-05:002023-08-23T19:41:25.907-05:00This Song Is About You (And Me)<p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Shadows Into Light"; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6fuLPMzLNwgKu-_3gwGSF9k4bcTpsiIU_H8VJI5WcT01K-FsNCQTEhYaPrL4YTTR8TFxBSYHNg69C5wjMGwGkPx4Vmr8dTsymwmux0vL3dHcnH6pMeabTo-C2iuaPDV9xch7ITHaukRsJCNpOk2F0DEJVSKoqAPgyWCAAb6QC8RXCR6CY3R1q-_wD3n0/s1715/IMG_2238.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1715" data-original-width="1213" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6fuLPMzLNwgKu-_3gwGSF9k4bcTpsiIU_H8VJI5WcT01K-FsNCQTEhYaPrL4YTTR8TFxBSYHNg69C5wjMGwGkPx4Vmr8dTsymwmux0vL3dHcnH6pMeabTo-C2iuaPDV9xch7ITHaukRsJCNpOk2F0DEJVSKoqAPgyWCAAb6QC8RXCR6CY3R1q-_wD3n0/w452-h640/IMG_2238.jpg" width="452" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Dancing Script; font-size: x-large;">You’re so vain</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Dancing Script; font-size: x-large;">I bet you think this song is about you. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Dancing Script; font-size: x-large;">Don’t you? Don’t you? ~ Carly Simon</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">My family made fun of me when I hung this mirror in my coop. Yes, shame on them, they did. I tried to convince my scoffers that chickens really do love to look at themselves. Even roosters! Like handsome Basil here. He stares and stares. It’s quite funny. Perhaps a tad weird.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">But it’s good for us to take a long, hard look at ourselves every now and again. Actually, every day. Funny enough, as flawed humans we tend to not see very clearly our own flaws. The lens blurs a bit when we look at our own stuff. It is just so much easier (and possibly more fun) to see the issues of others.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i><span style="color: #274e13;"></span></i></span></p><blockquote><i><span style="color: #274e13;">“Why do you look at the speck of DUST in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the LOG in your own?” Matthew 7:3</span></i></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Speck versus log. You get the idea. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Why is it so easy to see the mistakes and missteps of our brothers—and sisters and parents and children and friends and neighbors—and, yet, quickly gloss over our own? I am so guilty of this.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2Y-qaGcOmY9Y2V98G4V9tyhdC4W5JcJqU2YBUwufSF0F2qppXe5tHr8S02jspMG7q6ugjXKSUVOGCB7Pv6YJhJeYCZVympQjdMArEU2JFUSxOGDIaJgXKNHOkb0fd96_utO8InvY6QI3KYHquQcnUqK3uMwnOPnpwv_DFwDSZfpTaiEtl77fQckAVY0/s1384/IMG_2237.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1384" data-original-width="1100" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs2Y-qaGcOmY9Y2V98G4V9tyhdC4W5JcJqU2YBUwufSF0F2qppXe5tHr8S02jspMG7q6ugjXKSUVOGCB7Pv6YJhJeYCZVympQjdMArEU2JFUSxOGDIaJgXKNHOkb0fd96_utO8InvY6QI3KYHquQcnUqK3uMwnOPnpwv_DFwDSZfpTaiEtl77fQckAVY0/w318-h400/IMG_2237.jpg" width="318" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">We can effortlessly justify and minimize and explain away our own choices all day every day, but then, oh that speck of dust in someone else’s eye, man, that gets us! That gets under our skin. That gets us all hot and bothered. That gets us up on our high horse. How dare they?</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Honestly, I think this is one of the devil’s favorite tactics. He loves to distract us from<br /> working on ourselves. If he gets us focused on someone else’s mess, he knows we won’t have much time to address that pretty messy person in the mirror. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">He doesn’t want us to focus on fixing ourselves. He wants us to keep minimizing and justifying and explaining so we go on living complacent and comfortable in our own stench. Our sin. He does this to keep us from God’s goodness and His best for us.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">But God has more for us. Better for us. His best. </span></p><p><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><i></i></span></p><blockquote><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><i>“I ask that the eyes of your (my) heart may be enlightened, so that you may know the hope of His calling, the riches of His glorious inheritance …” ~ Ephesians 1:18</i></span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Another version says, <i><span style="color: #274e13;"></span></i></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i><span style="color: #274e13;">“I pray that your hearts will be flooded with light so you can understand the confident hope He has given.” </span></i></span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><b>Eyes flooded with light!</b> I love that. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Of course the evil one wants to keep us in the dark. To keep us afraid. To keep us from looking at ourselves. To keep us from Truth. The very last thing he wants us to know is that beautiful confident hope and the riches of our glorious inheritance we have in Jesus. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Sometimes, we just don’t want to see. Or hear. Or feel. Or "go there." We choose, instead, to numb and dull and deflect. We harden our hearts and we hide in our dark.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Matthew 13:15 might make it most clear —</span></p><p><i><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"></span></i></p><blockquote><p><i><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">“For this people’s heart has become calloused; </span></i></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Montserrat;">they hardly hear with their ears, </span></i><i><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Montserrat;">and they have closed their eyes. </span></i></span></p><p><i style="color: #274e13; font-family: Montserrat;"><span style="font-size: large;">Otherwise they might see with their eyes, hear with their ears, </span></i></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="color: #274e13; font-family: Montserrat;">understand with their hearts and turn, and I would heal them.’</i><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Montserrat;">”</span></span></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Montserrat;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Don’t be afraid of that mirror. Don’t be a chicken. Or maybe, DO be a chicken — like Basil. Take a good look. Take an honest look. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Ask Jesus to flood your eyes with His light. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">That is where truth and beauty become clear. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">That is where hope and healing become ours. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><p><br /></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-60182572756074305262023-08-10T11:57:00.012-05:002023-08-11T05:10:19.736-05:00Dirty Jobs: Car Rides, Kids and Colonoscopies<p><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px;"><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsbpVa1gkSWUYEqJTkgXGXy4wclFbVrvkvW2ZfpQdZE6_MTVFSuAQu7HW5pPHJDW7ZgsBjVrI2hymJ7inZMt6W7VOSwe-P56ocNZQQGds51XYFbRsMDW3nXONrDBhMLoEDzm8LdcCpf5oXbgskMq0zyozl3nxcTgBEKDhGxubPAwj4jp3oo_khwxqqfks/s4032/IMG_1660.heic" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsbpVa1gkSWUYEqJTkgXGXy4wclFbVrvkvW2ZfpQdZE6_MTVFSuAQu7HW5pPHJDW7ZgsBjVrI2hymJ7inZMt6W7VOSwe-P56ocNZQQGds51XYFbRsMDW3nXONrDBhMLoEDzm8LdcCpf5oXbgskMq0zyozl3nxcTgBEKDhGxubPAwj4jp3oo_khwxqqfks/w300-h400/IMG_1660.heic" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">these dirty boys clean up pretty well!</td></tr></tbody></table>Last week, beach bound, Rick and I used a free Audible credit and listened to Mike Rowe read his book, <b>The Way I Heard It</b>.</span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px;"> </span><p></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><i>The deep timber of his gravely voice immediately took me back to the days of raising young kids. His Dirty Jobs show was a weekly classic in the McNatt home.</i></b> I can still see my boys and husband sprawled out on the sofas in rapt attention to whatever dirty job Mike Rowe was piping into our family room that week. Hanging on his every gross word, like a train wreck from which they couldn’t look away, I marveled at their focus. The more grotesque, the more rapt.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I’m pretty sure they never missed an episode. If memory serves me correctly, we owned the DVD set of all 532 episodes. Okay, I just fact checked —179 episodes. I’m sure we watched them all. More than once. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I mean is there anything better than a couple of boys and their dad being grossed out together while stuffing faces with popcorn and chips and soda? That was how we rolled back then. After a few days at the beach with my family, I’m happy to report, it’s still how we kind of roll. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><b>Being grossed out together is real family bonding. </b></i></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">So as Rick and I traveled alone listening to this iconic voice, I’m sure he had to be thinking the same thing as me: this man, Mike Rowe, and his filthy offerings, were woven right into the fabric of our many years of early parenting. I will never not hear the deep bass of Mike’s voice and not think of my boys. Even if the topic was something absolutely awful, there’s something really wonderful about that memory of them all together sprawled out in our family room. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><b>I’m not going lie, in our travels this past week, it was nice being able to listen to an Audible uninterrupted. That’s what we get these days with older children—The ability to hear. </b></i>The oldest kids traveled from their own states and the other three drove together in a separate car. But as lovely as uninterrupted listening and quiet driving can be, it will always feel strange to be vacation bound without a backseat full of a bunch of hooting and hollering hooligans.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Talk about dirty jobs. Those were the days. Cleaning out our backseat after a long family trip was most certainly an adventure into the world of gross. There was always some kind of something sticky or smooshed or crumbled or crushed. Always something borderline horrifying to pull out from behind us. I easily conjure up the image of my young mothering self staring at an odd item unearthed from between the seats and wondering who and what and, mostly, why in heaven’s name?</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><b>Dirty Jobs wasn't just a show, but was also such a big part of raising kids. Sometimes we talk about some of the gross things from those years. We actually laughed about a few even this past week at the beach. Classic stories. Stories which were terrible to live through, but hilarious to remember.</b></i> Like the time the youngest brother leaned over the side of his bunk bed and threw up <b>into the mouth</b> of the oldest brother reclining innocently below. Perfect aim, perhaps, but no one forgets the moment when they receive another’s vomit— beloved brother or not. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I could go on and on with stories. You need only come sit at one of our family gatherings and I promise you won’t be disappointed. We truly could have our own Family Dirty Jobs show--at least 179 episodes.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Because that’s how most families roll. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Because that’s how most of life rolls. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><i>It’s a dirty business this living, is it not? I know we don’t like to talk about the dirt. </i></b>Pictures have a way of hiding it. I’m guilty of that trick. Angles are everything. But most of us with a few decades under our belts know that there’s no such thing as squeaky clean and picture-perfect living. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><i>Speaking of a dirty job, this week I had a colonoscopy. I know that’s not something most people share publicly, but, it fits this blog topic, so, I’m sharing</i></b>. Besides, please use this as your friendly reminder to cross that off your list. The night before my procedure I was explaining the process to Bella who, horrified, exclaimed, <i>“But mom, WHO does that??? WHO wants to do THAT job?” </i></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The next morning as I entered the OR and was getting all “set up” by the team, I shared my daughter’s comments with them. We all had a good laugh over her teenage disbelief. My gastroenterologist raised her hand and laughing, said, <i>“Me! I do that job!”</i> I wished, for Bella, I had taken a selfie with Dr. Julia who looked more like a movie star in front of the camera as opposed to, well, you know …</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I know it’s unpleasant. And perhaps not polite dinner table conversation, but it’s something necessary and pretty important. I’m happy to report that procedure went well and at first glance all looks good. Grateful after these past couple of years of not so favorable results. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">But Dirty Jobs, it’s how life is lived. I’ve kind of enjoyed watching my children grow up and have to learn how to do the not so pleasant. I don’t think it’s so bad for us, on occasion, to get dirty. Not just recline on our sofas and marvel at others getting dirty, but to dig in and do it ourselves.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><i>We don’t live pristine lives. And the sooner we realize how messy living is, the sooner we can mature and move on.</i></b> </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">You want a cuddly, cute puppy? </p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">You’ll have to take care of all things potty training.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">You want your shower to drain quickly?</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">You’ll have to learn how to snake out the gobs of gross hair. </p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">(Or call your dad).</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">You want to leave your lunchbox contents in your backpack all summer?</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">You’ll have to deal with that little lovely come back-to-school time.</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">You (Jody) want to have chickens in a pretty chicken coop?</p><p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">You'll need to scoop chicken #$%@ every single day of your life!</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><b><i>We have learned a little this year about hard jobs .. rough places … unpleasant things. This dirty cancer diagnosis has, in some ways, taken from us our much preferred rose-colored glasses.</i></b> We don’t spend too much time dwelling on the ugly, but instead, do what needs to be done and we move on. Have the test or procedure, take the medicine and the side effects, do the next hard thing. And then humble ourselves before the Lord and ask His mercy and strength in all of it. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">But of course, like you, we sometimes wonder:</p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Why can’t life be easier? More lovely? Better? <i>CLEANER</i>?</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The story of Adam and Eve in Genesis 3 gives us a pretty good theological understanding of what sin did when it entered the picture. How it muddied the beautiful garden. How it corrupted the perfect. How it shattered the pristine. After Adam and Eve’s sin there’s a lot in those next verses about DIRT —The serpent crawling on his belly in the dust and grit, the man working the ground, the woman in pains of labor. None of it pleasant. And all of it true to the suffering in our lives today. Very real and very filthy stuff.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">But, then, Jesus. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><i><b>Jesus who came, and carrying our gross sin on His shoulders, agreed to the hardest, most dirty job ever — dying on the cross in our place, for our sin. For us. You. Me.</b></i></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">A dirty, grotesque death, but necessary to bring our only hope for salvation. Our only hope to be fully restored to that which each one of us craves — Holiness. Wholeness, Redemption and Glory.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">So, yes, in the meantime, we live pretty dirty lives. Whether it be our job or our chore or our difficulty or our diagnosis. We are pretty much most days groveling in some kind of dirt. </p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">But, oh how wonderful that, on occasion, we get to be alone with the audible voice of our Father in heaven and the car ride grows quiet and we get to hear His deep voice reminding us that, dirty as this life is, there is so much more to our story … because of the cleansing blood of His Perfect Son, Jesus.</p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">And, that is exactly the way I hear it. I hope you do too.</p>
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<p style="font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: courier;">“Behold, I am making all things NEW.” Revelation 21:5</span></p>
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<p style="font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Montserrat;">“He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear the Lord and put their trust in Him.” Psalm 40:1-3</span></p><p style="font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #a64d79; font-family: inherit;"><i>(a few photos from our beach trip last week. because there really is beauty even in the dirty)! =)</i></span></p><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSljdNugkQehKl6n6EKQyxB20lEH2I1vSOtEhSwfH0r5oh4UnO6oeCW_PeqpYF93rPiaQRyK7HOjYsZ3R0PKuxCcAtTZUQ2AY2yTCR_ckh9Sg0OjoJNIRzZffuUmmpFoL6AgWpuZJRJ2_rqhC_eD732AZcPcllaz_qBWBI7ndi7HtedbZhZGq6JbFrEmA/s4032/IMG_1759.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSljdNugkQehKl6n6EKQyxB20lEH2I1vSOtEhSwfH0r5oh4UnO6oeCW_PeqpYF93rPiaQRyK7HOjYsZ3R0PKuxCcAtTZUQ2AY2yTCR_ckh9Sg0OjoJNIRzZffuUmmpFoL6AgWpuZJRJ2_rqhC_eD732AZcPcllaz_qBWBI7ndi7HtedbZhZGq6JbFrEmA/w480-h640/IMG_1759.heic" width="480" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVyQzaZWNmE022CBC5U1oaHReIYxHkZlxvwpX_PShahVlm0PB8eZLlDvV6QpU7hMC96S1FeKugT--_FNq-a5cIJfSrNWJCKSWwlteWE5qfnXD_dEg5KnZ1SfHb77fgGj-1EjlGiGeljbdQGn2skpIQQ4QioWnkxmMR9Z1speXlbJMws29N0UmYS_CdPpc/w480-h640/IMG_1665.heic" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglzjbclYA5A43jETZ0GD-0RBB6IbwFTEjMH0d42Wpz_If4GTfyotld39MheHO3rxjScUwQrdoDffDNZ6RY9rcUD0ozdCxoFI9cvleu85blIm8XhMxeuOj-K5kLulapZHEizH6hkou9N3wKuOAvnUH1dqOaPHGA_H-qH2vqTaIVHPdRFjZhXjbi3FfULjw/s2895/IMG_1634%202.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2895" data-original-width="2567" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglzjbclYA5A43jETZ0GD-0RBB6IbwFTEjMH0d42Wpz_If4GTfyotld39MheHO3rxjScUwQrdoDffDNZ6RY9rcUD0ozdCxoFI9cvleu85blIm8XhMxeuOj-K5kLulapZHEizH6hkou9N3wKuOAvnUH1dqOaPHGA_H-qH2vqTaIVHPdRFjZhXjbi3FfULjw/w568-h640/IMG_1634%202.heic" width="568" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlJPAiUbJdWm3X0PXJecF47HoQxCS7Vb7ZCFrDdYgPmHgrIdVHXfPZTdRzvD_BsTvwhIGrzL2aDX5XWoNw7Arm71AaRWWdJKdHefl0PE-kPOyDarOiLQcalYMewKFXeCUMjq1f8MktMBKJAiDVD662gYwZ7yuAJUsB7V9xqrGze0ttJ85mQW1O_cMUBM/s3023/IMG_1715.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2156" data-original-width="3023" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlJPAiUbJdWm3X0PXJecF47HoQxCS7Vb7ZCFrDdYgPmHgrIdVHXfPZTdRzvD_BsTvwhIGrzL2aDX5XWoNw7Arm71AaRWWdJKdHefl0PE-kPOyDarOiLQcalYMewKFXeCUMjq1f8MktMBKJAiDVD662gYwZ7yuAJUsB7V9xqrGze0ttJ85mQW1O_cMUBM/w640-h456/IMG_1715.HEIC" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-26263121735059067612023-03-07T15:59:00.001-06:002023-03-08T16:04:32.663-06:00Bringing Cake<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQvJ6PPXZcwZVbfHXJYey0SaUmwqXjEBTT0Bp5fj8Gib1CV698mW2ThYoZjsMFvCRE-1WK0iWqljJP8waqGqUymbZpoM3GfKINLmmMyP6Nrt0vaOF4waNIJ0F1F-SnHSz8o3v5H0WnpxR8PFBUaOCGS7Nd6Zeph0JxU0vuZanEbCGndS_GbsA458w/s1284/IMG_4589.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1284" height="498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQvJ6PPXZcwZVbfHXJYey0SaUmwqXjEBTT0Bp5fj8Gib1CV698mW2ThYoZjsMFvCRE-1WK0iWqljJP8waqGqUymbZpoM3GfKINLmmMyP6Nrt0vaOF4waNIJ0F1F-SnHSz8o3v5H0WnpxR8PFBUaOCGS7Nd6Zeph0JxU0vuZanEbCGndS_GbsA458w/w640-h498/IMG_4589.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;">It’s his birthday, but he’s at the beach with his college buddies this week. I offered to show up with a cake. He was clear, “No, mom. Don’t come to the beach with a cake. Absolutely not.”</span><p></p><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“I repeat: Mother. Do. Not. Bring. A. Cake.” </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I honored his wishes, but he doesn’t understand. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">He can’t understand that for all those years I was the one to bring the birthday cake and the ice cream and the balloons. For all those years I made the birthday magic happen.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Even though he is our 4th born. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I mean, truly, by the time he joined the family, there were birthday celebrations where I thought … can’t we just include the older siblings and wrangle up a few stray neighborhood children and call it a party?</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But no. We celebrated. Always. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiopqNSEi6h7iyjVRkoK_xRz0CDLL5cipKkirunx9iC43Gl8qZ80nRq-EG4A4cpvg84oZlC8k-MaUTKGrof5C0AFsdbGpzn5LayctA2cG3N53KAJHLoZEA4gpQgAAbQeY6sDYqTj3P_TPdny5IvXKDQ3u_mU7nzso71Kvm__2uhHzJM4CMgUacU74bk/s1677/IMG_4593.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1677" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiopqNSEi6h7iyjVRkoK_xRz0CDLL5cipKkirunx9iC43Gl8qZ80nRq-EG4A4cpvg84oZlC8k-MaUTKGrof5C0AFsdbGpzn5LayctA2cG3N53KAJHLoZEA4gpQgAAbQeY6sDYqTj3P_TPdny5IvXKDQ3u_mU7nzso71Kvm__2uhHzJM4CMgUacU74bk/w400-h381/IMG_4593.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>We made it as special as we could for as many years as he would allow. There was a pirate party, a trampoline park party, an out-to-the-movies themed party. Of course there was a race car party … or two. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I think back to all of those parties multiplied by all of our kids and I feel like I could almost have put “party planning” on my resume. There were years where it felt like I just went from one birthday party to another. I’m so grateful I had the time to do it all.</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Maybe some of the touches were more for me than they were for the birthday boy or girl. I mean does a 3 year old really care if her balloons are pale pink or hot fuschia? Did she really appreciate the fairy wings that required me to hunt down in at least a dozen dollar stores? </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">No, probably not. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But as this 4th born turns 20 today, I’m pretty sure even though he doesn’t want me to come anywhere near him with celebratory confections, he knows his mom did her best to bring the birthdays. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-GellJT6pgtAVOFVDEgewXLVYa_Tm7-h6a1j5N8qGRRfBga_ahHnDS-6PA6mS4rNY9BbNqP8FbcrqviW1Es1VOARNKoOmxEhrf4S_pkcZBIepQiVooAqyLHaHiZ0E8pNaxw2TjYv4zmvIMZAncM4ykGofbROmqVgfgQA9JjnEsIayDKPUcFnKJgL/s2190/IMG_4595.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2190" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-GellJT6pgtAVOFVDEgewXLVYa_Tm7-h6a1j5N8qGRRfBga_ahHnDS-6PA6mS4rNY9BbNqP8FbcrqviW1Es1VOARNKoOmxEhrf4S_pkcZBIepQiVooAqyLHaHiZ0E8pNaxw2TjYv4zmvIMZAncM4ykGofbROmqVgfgQA9JjnEsIayDKPUcFnKJgL/w293-h400/IMG_4595.JPG" width="293" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">He knows I loved doing it because I love him. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At some point we stop planning things for our kids. Twenty seems a good age. I write that, but I kind of laugh, because if you know Connor, you know he’s been pretty independent for quite some time. It didn’t take a 20th birthday for this kid. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Maybe it’s a 4th child thing. Maybe that’s why he’s been doing his own laundry since middle school. Maybe that’s why he can make a dinner reservation or a doctor’s appointment (or rent a beach house☺️) and not bat an eye. He grew up knowing his mom was always there, but also always a little busy planning other things—kids’ parties—too. He had to share me. Every day. He had to figure out how to take care of some of the stuff on his own. Sometimes that makes me a little bit sad and sometimes it makes me think maybe that was the best gift I could have given him. </span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">No, I won’t show up at the beach tonight with a cake and candles for Connor, but I will give thanks to the Lord for allowing me the chance to be his mom and celebrate him always.🎂</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Happy birthday, Connor!</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMCnZPaOCnTKO4pQqhgyRnSZ9SMBasjjEA-u3SVM4Bscn8uD42mUOO8Ld52yoWsyoEHxODb1uH-bzNDc39hVmZ8aG2YkiNn_zEMQrnNPj32y2HfGAEC5dJWcs5W97LyDwR1yAZ4ue3fIihH-tYmjU0nbOtj5425-SDogKmLRpofSMU2V9j0GnWZiQD/s2043/IMG_4592.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2043" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMCnZPaOCnTKO4pQqhgyRnSZ9SMBasjjEA-u3SVM4Bscn8uD42mUOO8Ld52yoWsyoEHxODb1uH-bzNDc39hVmZ8aG2YkiNn_zEMQrnNPj32y2HfGAEC5dJWcs5W97LyDwR1yAZ4ue3fIihH-tYmjU0nbOtj5425-SDogKmLRpofSMU2V9j0GnWZiQD/w640-h502/IMG_4592.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLydEmgeRATNOBMj0QDwvv9x23IrTmU2ywyL9egmPsZ1W_PwnwccNoY-NFE8Lpyt3ao8Nz8Sn8S6N2o85dCYJ-V9Uqn50C7Ge21IZ9t7R_qzO4bd9Bre6ll0RJ595VrwIvgD-d9D4cgx0lVyOGCWNJRTlX0fPS9nHjfzzdTeK5DEl01fXjnJ0QlyJy/s1317/IMG_4588.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1317" data-original-width="1213" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLydEmgeRATNOBMj0QDwvv9x23IrTmU2ywyL9egmPsZ1W_PwnwccNoY-NFE8Lpyt3ao8Nz8Sn8S6N2o85dCYJ-V9Uqn50C7Ge21IZ9t7R_qzO4bd9Bre6ll0RJ595VrwIvgD-d9D4cgx0lVyOGCWNJRTlX0fPS9nHjfzzdTeK5DEl01fXjnJ0QlyJy/w590-h640/IMG_4588.jpg" width="590" /></a></div></div>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-84080139464529573992023-03-03T16:27:00.001-06:002023-03-08T16:29:32.824-06:00Beech Trees<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTwtvGgiZ0QOX-_W6VQLsVHW4v07yaOen6z5puAxPjPxNsJYN-FULa5tEmxYP1x-Yz_93PSGgY92HpGCG5BPFZ057bzIlV5HfM5LuYPyf8OeTprBzBDAKfCpwlABz-H4z9NnUbn1-hKUKTS16-XYPkmONe-wu-cKTvSRjLedtgEF6-IxgXM6AU8nuM/s4032/IMG_4499.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTwtvGgiZ0QOX-_W6VQLsVHW4v07yaOen6z5puAxPjPxNsJYN-FULa5tEmxYP1x-Yz_93PSGgY92HpGCG5BPFZ057bzIlV5HfM5LuYPyf8OeTprBzBDAKfCpwlABz-H4z9NnUbn1-hKUKTS16-XYPkmONe-wu-cKTvSRjLedtgEF6-IxgXM6AU8nuM/w640-h480/IMG_4499.heic" width="640" /></a></div><span style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Beech trees. Anyone else a little gaga over them this time of year?</span></b></i></span></div></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They are the pale copper or light caramel colored trees you might notice scattered in the midst of early March’s muted grays and browns. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Before spring’s drama fully unfolds is the best time to appreciate them. Especially deeper in the woods. There’s not much else to see out there in winter’s drab dress—at least not to our eyes. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivM9_Y_zLTm7UqVdT-ZycXa40SSD_Vl317uJyh38BLuRlqCIt9psduTd3I6Nffn3zHkbOWh2gK-2dndUqFKj_1tp6d3tZRqZnWsdhRFjLh8WH_7pku2Dc87FoB58hAv4mPElsSewStADsBRxh39iCmXlRcEtUB3LRmsyprZ-9f6PeUg1qgOVQs_TAm/s4032/IMG_4504.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivM9_Y_zLTm7UqVdT-ZycXa40SSD_Vl317uJyh38BLuRlqCIt9psduTd3I6Nffn3zHkbOWh2gK-2dndUqFKj_1tp6d3tZRqZnWsdhRFjLh8WH_7pku2Dc87FoB58hAv4mPElsSewStADsBRxh39iCmXlRcEtUB3LRmsyprZ-9f6PeUg1qgOVQs_TAm/w400-h300/IMG_4504.heic" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">Though not evergreen, they hold their leaves throughout winter. When every other hardwood has long ago bid hers goodbye, beech leaves remain. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The reason: MARCESCENCE!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">“Deciduous trees that hold onto their leaves through the winter are described as marcescent (mahr-CESS-ent).”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They bring beauty and interest in a place where everything else feels kind of bare and blah. Lifeless and limp. </span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There’s a line of them arranged across a ridge in our woods. Like they were planted with purpose. If you happen to live in Johns Creek, my favorite place to view them is along Abbotts Bridge Road. Stunning.🍂</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I know their beauty has a biological explanation, but I can’t help but see them as stronger than the other more average deciduous trees. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They hang on. </span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They hold out. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They have hope.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They hint at beauty.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It seems when harsh winters or unwanted hardships come it might just be easier to let go and let our leaves drop ... to join the rest of the trees in the forest. But perhaps these beech trees can remind us of the strength + beauty which comes with resiliency.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjauQWISbPZ7lDPX_xFceG7D_GWlfTPsjCmE8EckTInZ55p22xC2iSViTGpaCNB-iTfu_wGkldJ-3kto-829H1cQ72eTouzfzh8GURwyLj-cISZQeDH3qOigSaErZxsW3BiD04GFtgDHS-spODotxrIzSuATjybebdEn2eUWQc2PJzY41sHoN_7H9f5/s4032/IMG_4542.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjauQWISbPZ7lDPX_xFceG7D_GWlfTPsjCmE8EckTInZ55p22xC2iSViTGpaCNB-iTfu_wGkldJ-3kto-829H1cQ72eTouzfzh8GURwyLj-cISZQeDH3qOigSaErZxsW3BiD04GFtgDHS-spODotxrIzSuATjybebdEn2eUWQc2PJzY41sHoN_7H9f5/w480-h640/IMG_4542.HEIC" width="480" /></a></span></div></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The same Creator of these exceptional trees created you and me. Maybe we can’t do it on our own, but perhaps He has placed within us a similar quality as these trees. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Not marcescence, but dependence … on Him. On His strength. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In the deepest woods.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In the depths of winter. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Dependence on the One who not only reminds us of the next season of life, but who is Life. </span></p><p><i>🍂”But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in His law he meditates day and night. He will be like a tree firmly planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in its season and its leaf does not wither; and in whatever he does, he prospers.” 🍂 ~ Psalm 1</i></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-27946476977499796362023-02-28T16:31:00.001-06:002023-03-08T16:40:08.770-06:00Spring [Reclaiming February]<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj14OqVjI0N1b5bJM-p9J114cVxyj9ls3Mb8cOt3Krg74jAvxHcdTY1VZ1CHnpsFMgWtEr6h55mwldQL3_wGCrB8_tC923AXdVjohux79NxiyQPEoHH-DXLAj2Cpc6_hIshp0IgQMch9mqhTW8EmepsGwD6c3H-oosxQhr9J2hcGTLyV-FrtZWBej9u/s1800/F9528A01-C14F-4D10-BBE5-FB6C6CF001CC.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj14OqVjI0N1b5bJM-p9J114cVxyj9ls3Mb8cOt3Krg74jAvxHcdTY1VZ1CHnpsFMgWtEr6h55mwldQL3_wGCrB8_tC923AXdVjohux79NxiyQPEoHH-DXLAj2Cpc6_hIshp0IgQMch9mqhTW8EmepsGwD6c3H-oosxQhr9J2hcGTLyV-FrtZWBej9u/w512-h640/F9528A01-C14F-4D10-BBE5-FB6C6CF001CC.JPG" width="512" /></a></div>Spring. How early it visits in the South. Might be my very favorite thing about living here.🌱<p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">People like to declare, “The change, it seemed to happen overnight!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">But I kind of disagree. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">It really does not happen “overnight.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">There’s work involved. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Most people just don’t know how to watch for it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Early spring requires a careful looking. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">A stopping. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">A noticing of the small and almost imperceptible.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Maybe the loudest pops of fuschia and bright yellows do explode seemingly while we sleep, but first, they must begin with the tiniest buds of pale green. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Almost invisible—unless willing to pay close attention. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">We won’t notice them in our rushing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">And though I love the bold drama of a tree in bloom, I love even more those baby buds so hard to see. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">BECAUSE—</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">That is actually where hope is truly found.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">It’s easy to believe warm weather is fast approaching when staring into the face of sunny daffodils or hot pink saucer magnolias. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">That’s not hope, that’s hard evidence. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO9WvmKRMgKyM1_KvYK0SHfZT97Se8qrjSMfRSrpROLe49VIQKZazoMSljv3i57P90Angh2MH7nOvkci2cOQvHyHZh3HBdBo3g6ToYNe2abITHNu33HNf2sLDWmQoX8jcXtTRo1UEAA9lWbcWMmCL8UtthVqOlTJ4Uw7gd143jGDzzdIh46oapEqPu/s1460/4BA73778-48F5-464E-A940-6CF90444FF27.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1460" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO9WvmKRMgKyM1_KvYK0SHfZT97Se8qrjSMfRSrpROLe49VIQKZazoMSljv3i57P90Angh2MH7nOvkci2cOQvHyHZh3HBdBo3g6ToYNe2abITHNu33HNf2sLDWmQoX8jcXtTRo1UEAA9lWbcWMmCL8UtthVqOlTJ4Uw7gd143jGDzzdIh46oapEqPu/w395-h400/4BA73778-48F5-464E-A940-6CF90444FF27.JPG" width="395" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">AND — </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Faith isn’t seeing and then believing, it’s believing before seeing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Or it isn’t really faith. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i>“Faith shows the reality of what we hope for; it is the evidence of things we cannot see.” </i></span><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">~ Hebrews 11:1</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I know we all long for the surety of full bloom. We gaze at those frothy flowers, and, with confidence, proclaim it a beautiful tree and more to come. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">BUT —</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Is it possible that Jesus wants us first to trust Him? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">To trust Him for what He’s doing? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">For what He’s bringing? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">For what He has promised?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">I’ll admit, this is hard for me. I like the evidence. I like proof, clarity, results!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibLxZEi5h4XVGGzk6VLOUD8ZMeKgB8H-tMgThwLFJoIDmVHp6XWYkHMhDb8jR66VqQIF0XnEKjJCR8j2bQeAR868ASyyR1qOZyBxtvagvR2rFYkrQOQlTcPTNyE73B-B9GtV082Y4XTYNVaY7nMaQsDrJ187zqEbIASkjDOYp4I4CxqY5F2wANKubT/s1460/BE706010-BCD2-4305-8A2D-6C0979F333A5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1460" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibLxZEi5h4XVGGzk6VLOUD8ZMeKgB8H-tMgThwLFJoIDmVHp6XWYkHMhDb8jR66VqQIF0XnEKjJCR8j2bQeAR868ASyyR1qOZyBxtvagvR2rFYkrQOQlTcPTNyE73B-B9GtV082Y4XTYNVaY7nMaQsDrJ187zqEbIASkjDOYp4I4CxqY5F2wANKubT/w395-h400/BE706010-BCD2-4305-8A2D-6C0979F333A5.JPG" width="395" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br />But this year God has held me in a place requiring me to stop and look more closely. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">To stop and look and have faith. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">The evidence of His love has been a bit harder to see. I’ve had to look more intently for those little buds of blessing—for those tiny gifts of grace. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Yes, it has been challenging, but it has also been faith building. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">If your trees aren’t yet dressed in bright colors, I encourage you to stop for a minute and look more closely. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Have faith. Have hope.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">See His love.🌸</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">#reclaimingfebruary #HisLove #new🌱</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihrV9KWEPdPfQbOfre3PTSTCLFfyfz1xbWtcYoNY--FYMjVYQb9i9kVlcTKdHLbXqIE1JT_fIWcUVlyh362Pt00BIOOLza_J4fMGCRPsGo6Can5AH9WcJIZhdsww9Ce1WzT6pfPOtxWNHEsWVzkwxohfOH3HCVRBY6IVh6NNEYGMXNHtPg5BQn-7iX/s1600/DSC_5495.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihrV9KWEPdPfQbOfre3PTSTCLFfyfz1xbWtcYoNY--FYMjVYQb9i9kVlcTKdHLbXqIE1JT_fIWcUVlyh362Pt00BIOOLza_J4fMGCRPsGo6Can5AH9WcJIZhdsww9Ce1WzT6pfPOtxWNHEsWVzkwxohfOH3HCVRBY6IVh6NNEYGMXNHtPg5BQn-7iX/w640-h428/DSC_5495.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span><p></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-86902431464320055102023-02-20T16:41:00.002-06:002023-03-08T16:47:02.654-06:00Monday Mornings [Reclaiming February]<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBi8NIxt2qMWLFAtWqYB-sx9fC6zxdKzaDgH-tF-yVGC6-TacK2xAisPh2fh1ry7KlnAeJ2noqmHr-VIpYOqhAhAxE8VqZrQsx3wAx9lOGMNQw1ZBfZMmTp_daTqNkiQuD-JTHdLPLfgNEdR2bjmsFQbAt4XkZuf6wYmvOT5ZWWEzQd0_dNwqTlbzO/s3021/IMG_3892.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1987" data-original-width="3021" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBi8NIxt2qMWLFAtWqYB-sx9fC6zxdKzaDgH-tF-yVGC6-TacK2xAisPh2fh1ry7KlnAeJ2noqmHr-VIpYOqhAhAxE8VqZrQsx3wAx9lOGMNQw1ZBfZMmTp_daTqNkiQuD-JTHdLPLfgNEdR2bjmsFQbAt4XkZuf6wYmvOT5ZWWEzQd0_dNwqTlbzO/w640-h420/IMG_3892.heic" width="640" /></a></div><br />Monday mornings. Sometimes they hit hard. But in Reclaiming February, I am reviewing how I think about this somewhat dreaded day. <p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Instead of seeing the weekend over, I want to see the opportunity for another week begun. Another week of possibility. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">And mostly, a fresh start. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">No matter the disaster or disappointment of last week, this week is brand new. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">A blank canvas of do-overs. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">A clean slate of start agains.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">And, gosh, I need them!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">From the cycle of the seasons to the months of the calendar to the hours in our days, God abundantly gives the gift of New Mercy. Over and over. As messy humans, He knew we would desperately need it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">He knew we would physically crave the close of day with the setting sun.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">He knew we would eagerly welcome the start of another.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">He designed us that way. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Our spirits seek it out. Our bodies lie down and rise up in the same predictable pattern. How beautiful and intentional is our Creator-God. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">How can we not see His fingerprints on all of it?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">He is a God of rhythm and flow. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">A God of plan and purpose. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">A God of order and organization.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Psalm 30: 5 reminds us, “Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Amen? Amen! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i>“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”</i> Lamentations 3:22-23 </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">But, dear ones, don’t miss the main thing—All of this creative order only points to His very heart for us. He has written everywhere in nature, the story of something new. The story of a fresh start. The story of Redemption. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i>“Wash me and I will be whiter than snow.”</i> Psalm 51:7 </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Talk about a clean slate!🤍</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">No matter what came before, there is always, ALWAYS His gift of NEW.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><i>“Behold, I am making everything new!”</i> Revelation 21:5</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">That means Mondays. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">That means me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">And you. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">New.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Amen.</span></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-50615932713605099162023-02-07T19:11:00.005-06:002023-02-07T19:11:56.855-06:005 Smooth Stones [Reclaiming February~Day 7]<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKm9KLtGtL7R7LUkjBo8Jtke-rZWapzRIdv6aWi985a5MYwjiY_NgsqZe2hW-eqgDiP8VPV0jkKQMSympHM7ZNrsSYNHyaQK2rT87_kEHhkJ1qb-47h_LoFvdXSrt4GYfA9cnTwuDPZcV_tmTFY6S1scou6p51RoIYc5DcRFUHcNUhWN438imaVCal/s3280/IMG_3409%20copy.heic" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3280" data-original-width="3023" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKm9KLtGtL7R7LUkjBo8Jtke-rZWapzRIdv6aWi985a5MYwjiY_NgsqZe2hW-eqgDiP8VPV0jkKQMSympHM7ZNrsSYNHyaQK2rT87_kEHhkJ1qb-47h_LoFvdXSrt4GYfA9cnTwuDPZcV_tmTFY6S1scou6p51RoIYc5DcRFUHcNUhWN438imaVCal/w369-h400/IMG_3409%20copy.heic" width="369" /></a></div>Not surprising, but I’ve always loved words. As a little girl I kept a list of words I wanted to remember. I collected them like other kids collected comic books or baseball cards. The bigger, the better. I found them fascinating. I’d circle them in books I was reading and work out the pronunciations before google was even a thing. I guess the English teacher gig was always meant to be.<p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Last year, I began to wrestle with some pretty big words. Only this time, I didn’t want to write them down. I didn’t want them on any of my lists. Incurable. Terminal. Metastatic. Let's not even consider all the medical jargon I've been juggling. Yikes. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Big words. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Massive meanings. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Giant sized implications. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Metastatic cancer is a massive giant. An ugly ogre. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">David, in the Psalms, depicts God as a giant slayer. But well before David wrote one word he was just a young shepherd boy. The antithesis of anything large. An average, ordinary shepherd taking care of his sheep until he faced his own giant—Goliath. You probably know the story. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: x-large;">David, with his sling and his 5 stones standing before the massive Goliath in his 9 feet and his bad boy bronze and his invincible iron. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Everyone else was afraid. Even King Saul and his army had forgotten who God was. Forgotten what God does. Forgotten His power and His mighty plan. Forgotten what it means to have Him on our side. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">But not David.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">After tending his sheep, David was sent to the battle to only bring lunch for his big brothers. Nothing more. Just lunch. He didn’t bring armor or weapons or a finely tuned strategic plan. He brought bread and cheese. But when he heard there was a loud mouth, cocky, SOB, ogre taunting the Israelite army he volunteered to go fight him. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t hurry back to his sheep. He didn’t make excuses. He volunteered.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">He was the sheep guy. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">The lunch bringer.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">The youngest brother. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">The weak one.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">But, regardless of all these things he was or wasn’t, he knew God on his side. And that’s all that mattered when that small stone struck the forehead of that big giant and brought him crashing to the earth.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">I loved that story as a little girl, but I NEED that story as woman now. I didn’t want these giant words in my life, but I really do want the giant kind of faith David displayed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">I bring absolutely nothing to this battle. But, the young shepherd boy reminds me, I don’t need to bring anything to this battle. God is on my side. And His word encourages me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">After defeating Goliath, David went on to write the Psalms filled with images of God as our great defender, warrior and protector. In the massive problems and the biggest battles, He is with us and He fights for us. Our own weapons matter little. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Do you need to be reminded of what God can do? I encourage you to begin with the Psalms. These are the words I now write down, spell out, memorize and cling to. These are the words which—if I was a tattoo girl—I’d tattoo across my skin. Who knows, I still might.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">These are the words which matter most. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><i>“I do not trust in my bow, my sword does not bring me victory; but you give us victory over our enemies.” Psalm 44:6-7</i></span></p><p><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><i>“The Lord is my strength and my shield; in Him my heart trusts, and I am helped; my heart exults, and with my song I give thanks to Him.” Psalm 28:7</i></span></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"></span></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-63071634450883616192023-02-05T18:59:00.001-06:002023-02-07T19:07:13.056-06:00Happy Birthday [Reclaiming February~Day 5]<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipB4ATe5krLb3wBjZUATgWmLXd9EsWU_8C3QHzldi7oxlwaaNDfd4qFZpnrGwyaDqLFY6kqvaYaLKXCrTGBEsOcXNeWijOSf2h8NlYsNBOZm57rQVCibXYei_nQYwLGnImIuxeqmXXhA9stmxzt2SMZ1_TZ6qWQbg5Sk62whF5BShpP-NIZPgIuQNb/s1625/IMG_3331.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1625" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipB4ATe5krLb3wBjZUATgWmLXd9EsWU_8C3QHzldi7oxlwaaNDfd4qFZpnrGwyaDqLFY6kqvaYaLKXCrTGBEsOcXNeWijOSf2h8NlYsNBOZm57rQVCibXYei_nQYwLGnImIuxeqmXXhA9stmxzt2SMZ1_TZ6qWQbg5Sk62whF5BShpP-NIZPgIuQNb/w630-h640/IMG_3331.JPG" width="630" /></a></div><br />Happy birthday to our birthday twins and book ends, Emily and Bella! <p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Truly, this day alone easily reclaims all of February and then some. God brilliantly displays his love in the gift of our Em and Bell. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">This feels like the right time to tell you a piece of their sister-story: When we were first given Bella’s file we were praying through and trying to process God’s call into adoption. It was a huge decision, as Rick once said, “we looked more in need of a nanny than a 5th child!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: x-large;">One evening, during that time, Emily marched into the room and with hands on her hips exclaimed to Rick and me, “I don’t know what there is to decide. This little girl needs a home, a family and parents … and we’ve got that and can give it to her. We have plenty to share with her so I don’t really know what there is to even think about.” And with a huff, she turned on her heel and marched back out of the room. (I wish y’all could have heard the mixture of conviction and exasperation in her)!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Rick and I stared at each other. A bit stunned. This wasn’t her normal 13 year old behavior. I was pretty sure I’d never before heard her advocate so selflessly. But her little speech impacted us and (obviously) moved us toward the right (best ever) decision.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidozNVkrQxpdrrh7qDj8PzcWRgK74Xp3ehh6n2Z2ZfTDpTijtpmMqpvBczVtUEfBanuru_KMxywPemxMiL6muYzjOmcXMoyJnUlGIsN-GJEVhNUgwNcmiFznbdCpXbMvux3MlLVGykNGlurUZ843MJPcC5m_M5tI9CH9HeVeTyB4VR2MoDXTDSuQPI/s2081/IMG_4C655DACCD8D-3.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2081" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidozNVkrQxpdrrh7qDj8PzcWRgK74Xp3ehh6n2Z2ZfTDpTijtpmMqpvBczVtUEfBanuru_KMxywPemxMiL6muYzjOmcXMoyJnUlGIsN-GJEVhNUgwNcmiFznbdCpXbMvux3MlLVGykNGlurUZ843MJPcC5m_M5tI9CH9HeVeTyB4VR2MoDXTDSuQPI/w308-h400/IMG_4C655DACCD8D-3.JPEG" width="308" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">But there’s more. That same night, unable to sleep, I went back down to our office and opened up Bella’s file again. As I was combing through it more closely, for the first time, I noticed her birthdate. I could hardly believe it —February 5th! The very same as this oldest daughter who had just that evening advocated for a tiny girl on the other side of the world. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">I was blown away. Tears and laughter mixed together that night. God really does give the most beautiful, unbelievable reminders of His love and sovereignty. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">There is absolutely no accident or coincidence in our two girls sharing a birthday. God reclaimed a tiny girl in China, He reclaimed a 13 year old girl’s heart in America and He reclaimed February 5th long, long, long ago. Glory to Him. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Em and Bells, I love the story your sweet sisterhood tells the world. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">You are so loved. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Happy birthday!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">#ReclaimingFebruary #sisters #GodsLove</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5swy3vOHP52TFUcLqIPwvfdmt9GdcsPxWHqutVQ9pK9uhvfqhnOLRjSoacouF6Xxii-UN_nccde4IJP1sLll5Wg-lqesIKdCMKMx3AC6JLxhuhKv7_5xVFuCcXF2A4MDPi_g5UvOMN7B_ievetbRuI72QbDUJXKNSd0QSQ_ZAj34zg1ABrxF06WCM/s3191/IMG_3284.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3191" data-original-width="2249" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5swy3vOHP52TFUcLqIPwvfdmt9GdcsPxWHqutVQ9pK9uhvfqhnOLRjSoacouF6Xxii-UN_nccde4IJP1sLll5Wg-lqesIKdCMKMx3AC6JLxhuhKv7_5xVFuCcXF2A4MDPi_g5UvOMN7B_ievetbRuI72QbDUJXKNSd0QSQ_ZAj34zg1ABrxF06WCM/w452-h640/IMG_3284.heic" width="452" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-90482698002324964772023-02-04T18:49:00.005-06:002023-02-07T18:58:29.590-06:00Rooftop Friends [Reclaiming February ~ Day 4]<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: x-large;">Last year diagnosis day ran right into our daughters’ birthdays. I had a party planned February 4th for our youngest.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDWbDhGiTZNyH6g9BedCb_Vpqm7s782RyGr-KJgN9M8IleK28f44xvSpGF6gyy5BSZkexO0IAKz5RBppb8GXZERP2QlmhiPZmIGkW24-P2OCki-UGck95V0DBvApYqNwpWhFo0MIi7tCieuUoMf3gxWmVZ6YiY5jPhO4lzjB3ce1JgCMl0s4cOjGsI/s1715/IMG_3277.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1715" data-original-width="1284" height="670" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDWbDhGiTZNyH6g9BedCb_Vpqm7s782RyGr-KJgN9M8IleK28f44xvSpGF6gyy5BSZkexO0IAKz5RBppb8GXZERP2QlmhiPZmIGkW24-P2OCki-UGck95V0DBvApYqNwpWhFo0MIi7tCieuUoMf3gxWmVZ6YiY5jPhO4lzjB3ce1JgCMl0s4cOjGsI/w503-h670/IMG_3277.jpg" width="503" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">How does a woman wake up on her first full day of living with bad news and carry on with a birthday party</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: medium;">She doesn’t. </span> </p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">She can’t.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">I couldn’t. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">But, like they say in show business, the birthday party (show) must go on! I mean I had a really good excuse to hide under the covers and skip it altogether. No one would have argued.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">But I knew, even on that very first day when I was raw and reeling, that the show really did have to go on. I was going to have to figure it out—one shaky step at a time. One birthday party at a time. One plain old regular day at a time.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: x-large;">The amazing part of this party though wasn’t anything I did. It was what my friends did. A group of girlfriends swooped in and handled the entire thing for me. I showed up, but they showed their deep love for me and God’s love for me by handling every part of the party. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">That’s what exceptional friends do. They carry you when you can’t walk. Like the friends who carried the paralyzed man and lowered him through the roof to Jesus for healing. These girls (and so many others) have been carrying me this past year. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: x-large;">Meals, messages, carpools and cards. They have driven me to my infusions and appointments. They have read books and articles and done research. They have helped me make decisions regarding my home. They have sent gifts and flowers and food. They have prayed for me through the hours of the night. They have fasted for me. They have read God’s Word to me. They have sent scripture, played music, grocery shopped, and analyzed nutrition. I could go on and on. It’s been unbelievable. I can’t imagine walking this road without them. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">That paralyzed man on his mat, I identified with him this year. He and I don’t just have an illness in common, we also both have faithful friends. My friends carried my mat to Jesus. Even when it wasn’t clear how to get me there. Because like his friends, “They looked for a way to take the man into the house where Jesus was.” Women do that really well. They “look for a way.” When there doesn’t seem to be a way, they keep looking. They look harder. They get creative. They become determined. These men couldn’t get their friend in through the door, so they made a hole in the roof and lowered him to Jesus. There was no way that paralyzed man was going to get himself up on that roof, so his friends got him there. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Sometimes friends get you through the roof top. Sometimes they get you through the rough stuff. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">And what does Jesus say about this man’s friends?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: x-large;">“When Jesus saw THEIR faith, He said to the man, “Friend, your sins are forgiven.” … “I say to you, get up. Take your bed and go to your home.” At once the sick man got up in front of them. He took his bed and went to his home thanking God.” (Mark 2). </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">I am sure this no-longer-paralyzed man thanked God for his healing all the way home, but I am just as certain he thanked God for his friends. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">This year—tonight, in fact—we are having a little party at our house for Bella. I am Reclaiming February today grateful to be able to throw a little party for our youngest, but not for one minute forgetting those friends who carried me through this day last year. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">This morning I had a sweet mom call and ask if I needed her help with the party. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">My answer, “Thank you, but not tonight. This year, we’ve got it!</span></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-64026161018569365082023-02-03T13:16:00.002-06:002023-02-03T16:03:16.010-06:00Dependence Day [Reclaiming February~Day 3 ]<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: x-large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF8YODjeHm7fStxNngZAbxwaTQ3yc-TsMtdu4dsG8AMbeQAujQgEsIYLr53SbH-pAcy2NEn_6Uzsk2XLhyc20cQ6DQ5d7q-mspq0g7sX9RIjokDVThnZOsw3Yr-O7CpzGX2jyKXUlCZpwGSBJN7HWogU-B2HRd7K1EU_MKSLsnEuPrmz-pEZBFIYIr/s4032/IMG_3192.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF8YODjeHm7fStxNngZAbxwaTQ3yc-TsMtdu4dsG8AMbeQAujQgEsIYLr53SbH-pAcy2NEn_6Uzsk2XLhyc20cQ6DQ5d7q-mspq0g7sX9RIjokDVThnZOsw3Yr-O7CpzGX2jyKXUlCZpwGSBJN7HWogU-B2HRd7K1EU_MKSLsnEuPrmz-pEZBFIYIr/w480-h640/IMG_3192.HEIC" width="480" /></a></div><br />I love anniversaries. Weddings. Homecomings. Happenings. Historical events. You name it, any milestone or notable achievement, and I’m there to celebrate. Will probably throw a party or at least decorate something nearby. Y’all know me.<p></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Most of the time they invite something wonderful and worth remembering.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">However, anniversaries can also, unfortunately, invoke pain, panic, and some PTSD.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Today marks one year since learning my stage 4 diagnosis. One year. It’s hard to wrap my brain around that. Four seasons. Twelve months. 365 days of waking up each morning knowing I have this ugly business of incurable cancer mysteriously floating around in me.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Is this one year mark an achievement? Can we really call it that? I suppose it is at least notable. Or worrisome. Depending on how we want to look at time marked and measured. Regardless, I don’t look too closely. I stay in the day best I can. One foot in front of the other. One day at a time. The future, simply too much for me to consider most days. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">We don’t understand that until someone tells us it isn’t guaranteed. I mean the future is not guaranteed for any of us. There. You’ve been told. But that doesn’t fully compute until we have been stamped with something serious. I promise you I would very much have claimed no assurance of my days prior to this diagnosis, but I also promise you I didn’t quite get what that meant one year and one day ago. Of course I knew it in my head, but it is an entirely different matter when you feel the very ungluing of it in your gut. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">It is with different ears these days that I listen to the way we talk: </span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><i>“Someday I’m going to travel to Spain and watch the bulls run. </i></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><i>Someday I’m going to organize all those old photos into albums.</i></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><i>Someday I’m going to hike the Appalachian Trail or canoe the Boundary Waters or climb Mt. Kilimanjaro or take a cruise on the Reine River or write a book or organize my Tupperware or be early to carpool or whatever!</i></span></p></blockquote><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><i></i></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">We think we will always have it. This someday. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Elusive and ethereal as it is, we put it in our pocket. We feel quite secure it will stay safely there if we do all the right things and take all the right steps. On occasion, we peek in and we pat it knowingly. Confidently. Expectantly. We might say “God willing,” but we wink at it anyway. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">This time. This treasure. This someday.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">And I don’t want to change that thinking for you one bit. It is a beautiful, comfortable, luxurious kind of thing. But it changed for me a year ago and I am still learning to process. Kate Bowler said it best in her book “Everything Happens for a Reason,” when she wrote, <i>“the future was like a language I couldn’t speak anymore.”</i></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">I’ve had a few people ask me what’s been the biggest thing this year. And, without a doubt, that is at least part of my answer — how I speak about the future.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">And maybe even that is a luxury. I know some people are diagnosed and thrown immediately into the brutal pain of the right now: Hard treatments and surgeries and side effects. And where I’ve had all of those things this year, they haven’t altered my life too dramatically. Yes, I’ve had to give up some things, but not everything. Not all of it. I’m still me. I’m still living life. I am. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Yes, the physical has changed a bit, but it’s truly the mental which has been the biggest contender. There’s a battle within which—at least right now—wages more violent than the physical. And there aren’t enough mind numbing distractions to come close to combating it. Not enough Netflix series or trips to Target or suspense-filled novels or house improvement projects. There simply aren’t enough<i> things</i>. There’s no pretending. No spinning. No denying. No disillusionment. There’s no instagram filter which can make it look even one bit more lovely.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">So at the end of my day I’m left with the task of wading through it. Wrestling with it. Wondering about it. And, yes, sometimes, weeping over it. And the only way I can do any of that is walking with Jesus in it. It’s the only way. Again, I thought I understood what that meant one year ago. I didn’t. And I probably don’t understand today what I will in one more year, God willing. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">The only way to do this hard thing is walking with Jesus. There is nothing. NOTHING. Which you or I can bring to this level of worry and what-if. I’m not saying my walk looks super shiny these days. Somedays it’s pretty messy. I’m limping. I’m crawling. He’s carrying me. Somedays I sound like I’m hanging out with a big bunch of hooligans and heathens, certainly not the Most High. I’m irritable and anxious and on edge. I’m snippy and testy and tired and, I’m sure if you ask my family, tiresome.</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">But, crazy thing is, that’s when I know He’s calling me to come walk closer with him. To lean harder on Him. He doesn’t leave me sitting here in my mess. He doesn’t turn away. He doesn’t tell me to go get myself cleaned up and then come back to Him when I’m a better version of myself. He is there. He is right here washing my dirty face, wiping my tears, wrapping His arms around me and reminding me He’s in this battle with me. The physical. The mental. The spiritual. All of it. He’s with me. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">So today’s anniversary doesn’t just mark my diagnosis, but, much more importantly, it marks the day I began drawing closer to Jesus and pressing harder into Him. It marks the day I learned more deeply about my dependence on Him. I’m never going to be able to stray to far from the fact that February 3rd is my diagnosis anniversary, but because I am determined to Reclaim February, I’m declaring this day my Dependence Day Anniversary. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: courier; font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: courier; font-size: large;">“I depend on God alone; I put my hope in Him. He alone protects and sees me; His is my defender, and I shall never be defeated. My salvation and honor depend on God; He is my strong protector; He is my shelter. Trust in God at all times, my people. Tell Him all your troubles, for He is our refuge.” Psalm 62: 5-8</span></p>
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<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 14px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 16px;"><br /></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-27212995476807281912023-02-02T16:04:00.016-06:002023-02-03T16:09:55.113-06:00Holding Me [Reclaiming February~Day2]<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKcrVHT4zksK4wgErnkoWRdcE7TkJawGU7L5HO9tTUV0zmotyUcERT0hP16aRMU1WbQtAnhzmqHA2GK7NZi6vDOEVUIVLvtwvp0maZxzMs8795DB7C8swdOybyoTk4nedHP1h1dQdHmteXW8rcQWsAlnfeXzCX6tbF3DgiJ8QzHGtv9Lov_q8UGNK9/s2399/IMG_8629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2399" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKcrVHT4zksK4wgErnkoWRdcE7TkJawGU7L5HO9tTUV0zmotyUcERT0hP16aRMU1WbQtAnhzmqHA2GK7NZi6vDOEVUIVLvtwvp0maZxzMs8795DB7C8swdOybyoTk4nedHP1h1dQdHmteXW8rcQWsAlnfeXzCX6tbF3DgiJ8QzHGtv9Lov_q8UGNK9/w400-h266/IMG_8629.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: x-large;">God shows His love for me pretty much every day through this guy. This husband of mine who in this past challenging year has been the physical arms holding me.</span><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: x-large;"> </span><p></p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Holding on to me. <br />Somedays, holding me up.<br /><br />When I’ve felt things spinning out of control, and even when I’ve acted out of control (and I have) he’s been there holding the line.<br />Holding me back from the edge. <br />Holding me tight in the storm. <br />Holding my hand in the sadness. <br />And, maybe most importantly, holding me accountable to God’s Truth. <br /><br />When the doctor called to say those first awful words last February, Rick’s arms were the first arms to embrace me.<br /><br />We aren’t a perfect couple. (We argued last night before bed🙄). Seriously, people. This year has tested our marriage in ways unimaginable. In ways too many to count.<br /><br />But when God joined our hands together 33 years ago, God knew this bitter dance ahead and He knew Rick would hold on tight to me and love me as Christ loves. What more can I possibly say? <br /><br />“Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her … In the same way husbands should love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself. For no one ever hated his own flesh, but nourishes and cherishes it, just as Christ does the church, because we are members of his body. “Therefore a man shall leave his father and mother and HOLD FAST to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.” Ephesians 5</span><div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgypMQVeIeJ_e_QQ0PAaXa-YSqaZiHx1sKWf8vZwnYYncOpT0Z0DVwL5U_Srsw4rI9Kz0JIwuxyT56-HrbINyBgKfxpcfvkjWLDlqRsbMC4DvwghwEsOGXKATH1_h1JK0dX8-cRxVsnrdgUVBitdBAXKz3KMcVDs3IcwRwuLApnY0Q3a_9aNq4gtstk/s1440/IMG_3200.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1096" data-original-width="1440" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgypMQVeIeJ_e_QQ0PAaXa-YSqaZiHx1sKWf8vZwnYYncOpT0Z0DVwL5U_Srsw4rI9Kz0JIwuxyT56-HrbINyBgKfxpcfvkjWLDlqRsbMC4DvwghwEsOGXKATH1_h1JK0dX8-cRxVsnrdgUVBitdBAXKz3KMcVDs3IcwRwuLApnY0Q3a_9aNq4gtstk/w640-h488/IMG_3200.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br /></div>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-23030104359205948672023-02-01T17:13:00.004-06:002023-02-01T17:13:58.475-06:00Reclaiming February<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAR83rWg9IdKhaOCPyh7URUbjI0KPev7DPNMD7fsQ0kV9U7TV5EJrwckC7_w1x76yRtcw171qM_eUmKMKmM_1k0eQXrFSwbyQvlW-E-kM82P04pGjvMiDBSiWXj-da8Sy56arNo0lOYgqRs8qX9x3kHEF2qtmRah7FvtIquC_3mOKFxsid9aCwdYR8/s1800/9DD685B1-444B-4F4E-8B96-3EE4FA532C83.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAR83rWg9IdKhaOCPyh7URUbjI0KPev7DPNMD7fsQ0kV9U7TV5EJrwckC7_w1x76yRtcw171qM_eUmKMKmM_1k0eQXrFSwbyQvlW-E-kM82P04pGjvMiDBSiWXj-da8Sy56arNo0lOYgqRs8qX9x3kHEF2qtmRah7FvtIquC_3mOKFxsid9aCwdYR8/w512-h640/9DD685B1-444B-4F4E-8B96-3EE4FA532C83.JPG" width="512" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><b>Happy February, friends. I’ll confess, I was a little hesitant to turn the calendar page this morning. </b></i>Just the month’s name holds a good bit of PTSD. A year ago, February went drastically off the rails at our house. </span></span><p></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><i><b>It was February 3rd when I received the MBC diagnosis. </b></i>Normally I love this month. It holds the birthdays of both our oldest AND our youngest (February 5th). It holds Valentines Day and sweet declarations of love. It holds the slightest beginnings of spring (at <a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="-1"></a>least here in the south it does). But last year I could barely hold it together as our world rocked with news of cancer’s return and spread. For me, February felt shot to pieces. Cupid and his arsenal of little arrows mocked me. The entire 28 days were a blur as I began digging out from my diagnosis and forming a medical plan, a battle plan and a brand new not-so-quite-so-shiny plan. </span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><b><i>So on this first day of February 2023 I’m taking back the month. I’m reclaiming that which felt obliterated and overwhelming.</i></b> In this “month of love,” my original idea was to share each day “something I love,” but as I was thinking through my plan this morning it occurred to me that’s not really it at all. </span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><b><i>Reclaiming this month has little to do with what I love, and everything to do with how God shows His love to me. How even in this first year of an incurable disease, He has, again and again, demonstrated His great, unconditional and incredible love for me. </i></b>Some of you might roll your eyes and even argue—A cancer diagnosis doesn’t exactly sound like anyone’s version of a love letter. Nope, it sure doesn’t. But stick with me this month and I will hope to offer you real examples of what love looks like even in some pretty unlovely circumstances.</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">And so today, it feels only right to begin my February Reclamation with Jesus and what He demonstrated for me on the cross.<i> “But God shows His love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Romans 5:8.</i></span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu1gQHhARbtrcD_TioTmx4WSru44RxsP0vPHYNY3yG7vQuXSW0aeXA9dOnI0L9kUVd61S1LK27FQxzc7wEyWY8bVL9MCv-ffb_EZg2MwzWKthR2K_5lKl_EmoHfOrq4OyZyOysvpxqV0VSK0QIMDxB9ezjcyz8yliFSmDmBJmKGgB5q117ahJTkK0c/s1800/06A9230F-313A-49B7-967B-E689B84891FD.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu1gQHhARbtrcD_TioTmx4WSru44RxsP0vPHYNY3yG7vQuXSW0aeXA9dOnI0L9kUVd61S1LK27FQxzc7wEyWY8bVL9MCv-ffb_EZg2MwzWKthR2K_5lKl_EmoHfOrq4OyZyOysvpxqV0VSK0QIMDxB9ezjcyz8yliFSmDmBJmKGgB5q117ahJTkK0c/w256-h320/06A9230F-313A-49B7-967B-E689B84891FD.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">I didn’t earn it. I don’t deserve it. But He came and He chose to bear my sin and become the ultimate sacrifice. He did it for me. For you too. Nothing says true love like someone laying down their life for another. <i>“There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”</i> John 15:13.<span class="x3nfvp2 x1j61x8r x1fcty0u xdj266r xhhsvwb xat24cr xgzva0m xxymvpz xlup9mm x1kky2od" style="display: inline-flex; height: 16px; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle; width: 16px;"><img alt="♥️" height="16" referrerpolicy="origin-when-cross-origin" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/tac/1/16/2665.png" style="border: 0px;" width="16" /></span></span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Today, while working in the woods I thought I’d try to find something that resembled a cross for today’s photo. And can I just tell you it was crazy—everywhere I looked I was finding crosses. My favorite is the two roots with one growing over the other. 1st photo. </span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">I am not sure I have it in me to post every day. I’m not sure YOU have it in YOU to read my post every day!<span class="x3nfvp2 x1j61x8r x1fcty0u xdj266r xhhsvwb xat24cr xgzva0m xxymvpz xlup9mm x1kky2od" style="display: inline-flex; height: 16px; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle; width: 16px;"><img alt="🙈" height="16" referrerpolicy="origin-when-cross-origin" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/t52/1/16/1f648.png" style="border: 0px;" width="16" /></span>Lol. So some days you might see my stuff pop up, but I’m taking the pressure off the every day posting. </span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">This isn’t just about me though. I’d love you to also stop and think about how God has shown his love for you. Go ahead and begin listing the examples. I bet, like all my crosses in the woods, you’ll be suprised. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Sometimes we just have to look. </span></div><div dir="auto"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMmX6-2BkYqrp2sm4u3fB04qHaxY1nH2z93l2pQxdPuhxaxV7hxeCvzKFdI8zkEwa1QFTrTqLQ9NhkX50mNX-XOpXX3zVy2KzgL4KEuHBSk3C3uCRpbuRaAIJ3_ZWe9V4eWhVrccrnnWzKQeEs-HRPRGZdVlKxD1kvjc2TAXl-PtzYYqJa5gnCjqjI/s1800/8F66EFE6-A900-4BCE-906E-0427ACA16CE2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMmX6-2BkYqrp2sm4u3fB04qHaxY1nH2z93l2pQxdPuhxaxV7hxeCvzKFdI8zkEwa1QFTrTqLQ9NhkX50mNX-XOpXX3zVy2KzgL4KEuHBSk3C3uCRpbuRaAIJ3_ZWe9V4eWhVrccrnnWzKQeEs-HRPRGZdVlKxD1kvjc2TAXl-PtzYYqJa5gnCjqjI/w512-h640/8F66EFE6-A900-4BCE-906E-0427ACA16CE2.JPG" width="512" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhib8N6DoWANxFyIO9PnuLUbamVHNjlmVeNtU72x0opDUWDB7EVE33ofOZdZ_RArjuXwz026AwLHO0AAOCN6AymT5inV2pmqbESnE4RGuTxDB_M-STo9MBJW9X3zcEhwgrMwMURR0m4eAYgVwOGYISnBR0t2ZbAL7JGc07wtQIpPbdktcKUo6yzoQir/s1800/3678C042-A07C-4DD2-8AA6-2FCC88346E80.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhib8N6DoWANxFyIO9PnuLUbamVHNjlmVeNtU72x0opDUWDB7EVE33ofOZdZ_RArjuXwz026AwLHO0AAOCN6AymT5inV2pmqbESnE4RGuTxDB_M-STo9MBJW9X3zcEhwgrMwMURR0m4eAYgVwOGYISnBR0t2ZbAL7JGc07wtQIpPbdktcKUo6yzoQir/w512-h640/3678C042-A07C-4DD2-8AA6-2FCC88346E80.JPG" width="512" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-1iqvET2AL8BteOcBx52u_pXs-vUFGAUCKN-6TgqZHMvY_x1idH1b3IZewDDosqkAMPkxMlz7R7H2FLPmKiL0ChRpPnnijm2WB9vV5m4YnaXCIKQZLvz-Y7ZdqVGENxFHWb5iycmt_rsKZaNt39755_diongkcgWc28gv2JzBIJJT4ZGNSf2xS-oh/s1800/80886C32-7CA0-4429-A35D-320FA064E6A9.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-1iqvET2AL8BteOcBx52u_pXs-vUFGAUCKN-6TgqZHMvY_x1idH1b3IZewDDosqkAMPkxMlz7R7H2FLPmKiL0ChRpPnnijm2WB9vV5m4YnaXCIKQZLvz-Y7ZdqVGENxFHWb5iycmt_rsKZaNt39755_diongkcgWc28gv2JzBIJJT4ZGNSf2xS-oh/w512-h640/80886C32-7CA0-4429-A35D-320FA064E6A9.JPG" width="512" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxcyQfM589DFcniKRY_4E5srKq_5PuaTitzIt7uhFppeaSpm36FCcAzheeRfeaBw6Puj9z64Ame1MAnB0pH8rJp3FTd4CgfnOzxskrnOc_vgCu9lrYPnjweZaNVJqkDHEWxDneISF9wtbdic6kEYIvpiWzOFNFQNLOrXHyKVgPPHonQXQtzDuEMjEQ/s1800/B8955F39-376D-49F5-84B7-B754D143A7D8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxcyQfM589DFcniKRY_4E5srKq_5PuaTitzIt7uhFppeaSpm36FCcAzheeRfeaBw6Puj9z64Ame1MAnB0pH8rJp3FTd4CgfnOzxskrnOc_vgCu9lrYPnjweZaNVJqkDHEWxDneISF9wtbdic6kEYIvpiWzOFNFQNLOrXHyKVgPPHonQXQtzDuEMjEQ/w512-h640/B8955F39-376D-49F5-84B7-B754D143A7D8.JPG" width="512" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaN2-lMDykJPBRtaddgTFTOjPojYiacOgF3T6YDtwByCF3Ooycjo8D0CGMBfr5omf1_kwCreQKVLlwWp4RXLocYbAPeBeF7lWtuWHKJQGD1qQGAQe-O6Bo1fF6mtugeF-N2wo3EF1RLIiylBMOcN6OjiYIIo-WV9IM3aqXsPiUJ8tjiUPjaHkDVNxQ/s1800/BAD65A40-01EB-4A2D-9185-5287123DE3DE.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaN2-lMDykJPBRtaddgTFTOjPojYiacOgF3T6YDtwByCF3Ooycjo8D0CGMBfr5omf1_kwCreQKVLlwWp4RXLocYbAPeBeF7lWtuWHKJQGD1qQGAQe-O6Bo1fF6mtugeF-N2wo3EF1RLIiylBMOcN6OjiYIIo-WV9IM3aqXsPiUJ8tjiUPjaHkDVNxQ/w512-h640/BAD65A40-01EB-4A2D-9185-5287123DE3DE.JPG" width="512" /></a></div><br /><div dir="auto"><br /></div></div>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-11865046038671619412023-01-12T09:02:00.003-06:002023-01-12T09:02:57.575-06:00Psalm 18 and A Deep Breath<p><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-family: arial; font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;">Taking a deep breath tonight, dear friends. PET scan results showed up in My Chart late today. I’ll meet tomorrow with my doctor for more details, but from what I can surmise we are seeing “a favorable response” with my treatment. There has been a notable decrease in uptake and shrinking of several spots in my bones and lymph nodes. </span></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xdj266r x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">This is a great direction! Great news. </span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">God gets this glory. All of it. </span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I <span><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>told my girlfriend group today two things are going on in this battle … (and, believe me, it’s a battle). </span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">1. These scans cause great exhaustion mentally and emotionally. I’m spent. I feel like a boulder has been literally lifted from my back this evening.</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">BUT …</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">2. The scans (and the management of this disease) continue to lead me closer and closer to Jesus. Not because I’m all of a sudden super spiritual, but because I’m desperate for Him in a way I’ve never been before. Desperate. He is opening my eyes every day—Through scripture, through the words of others, through constant prayer, through His unexplainable peace. He is leading and He is strengthening. And though cancer is most bitter, there is a sweetness in this closeness to Jesus. It is not the silver lining, it is the very gold.</span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Psalm 18. If you get a chance, I invite you to go find a Bible and read it. Close your eyes and see the imagery set before you — the vivid images of God fighting for me … fighting for you. </span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">God swooping in to deliver and defend. See Him reaching down and pulling us out of deep waters. Hear his battle cry! Watch the earth tremble! Imagine the blast of rebuking breath from his nostrils! See him soar on the wings of the wind! Taste the victory. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">This is battle. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">And He is on our side. He is. He is. He is.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="x3nfvp2 x1j61x8r x1fcty0u xdj266r xhhsvwb xat24cr xgzva0m xxymvpz xlup9mm x1kky2od" style="display: inline-flex; font-family: inherit; height: 16px; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle; width: 16px;"><br /></span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;"><i>“He reached down from on high and took hold of me;</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;"><i> he drew me out of deep waters.” Psalm 18:16</i></span></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HSH2wGXSCb0">Tremble - The Worship Initiative </a><br /></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">TREMBLE</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Peace, bringing it all to peace</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">The storm surrounding me</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Let it break at Your name</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Still, call the sea to still</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">The rage in me to still</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Every wave at Your name</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Jesus, Jesus, You make the darkness tremble</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Jesus, Jesus, You silence fear</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Jesus, Jesus, You make the darkness tremble</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Jesus, Jesus</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Breathe, then call these bones to live</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Call these lungs to sing</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Once again, I will praise</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Jesus, Jesus, You make the darkness tremble</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Jesus, Jesus, You silence fear</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Jesus, Jesus, You make the darkness tremble</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Your name is a light that the shadows can't deny</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Your name cannot be overcome</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Your name is alive forever lifted high</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Your name cannot be overcome</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: Shadows Into Light;">Jesus, Jesus, You make the darkness tremble</span></div></div>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-65281418494841417632023-01-03T19:52:00.005-06:002023-01-03T20:19:26.413-06:00Resolutions & Results: Trust<p><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI8xr7ynJTN7pKQjfQh0EPVG3w8X4elks8EfghyS1zVHIt9f6Xb6J3AsOqo4Ga20XebbltDHNoyxYnt1XHw0aOPEwPZ2QxpxSewRn0lGH_PdYc7-YkLyxJlcOdSvl1jNvXVY2hUDaDHf54CUIYk7VUb17joT3RajWF2UrZZ67IpmKFmLdgfr105vqN/s1817/IMG_1347.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1817" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI8xr7ynJTN7pKQjfQh0EPVG3w8X4elks8EfghyS1zVHIt9f6Xb6J3AsOqo4Ga20XebbltDHNoyxYnt1XHw0aOPEwPZ2QxpxSewRn0lGH_PdYc7-YkLyxJlcOdSvl1jNvXVY2hUDaDHf54CUIYk7VUb17joT3RajWF2UrZZ67IpmKFmLdgfr105vqN/w532-h640/IMG_1347.jpeg" width="532" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /><b><i>I’ve found myself this week in a bit of a holding pattern. As everyone has been declaring their 2023 New Year’s words and resolutions, I’ve felt quiet. Not quick or sure what to say. In fact, not eager to declare or proclaim anything much at all. </i></b></span><p></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">After contemplating my strange hesitation all day today I’m pretty sure the reason is that, without even realizing it, I’m waiting for tomorrow. Tomorrow I have another set of scans scheduled. Tomorrow we will measure changes against my previous PET scan last fall. This is definitely not my favorite kind of week.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">And it is this worry-ridden pattern that I’m finding myself all tangled up in—Declare nothing until I have some updated information. No resolutions without first some results. Zero January commitments without a concrete picture of what is currently happening inside my body.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">As soon as this bit of self-understanding began to unveil itself today, I knew it was time to give my own shoulders a good shaking. This is not how it is supposed to work. I don’t want to be living in 3 month increments from scan to scan. I have never lived like this, why do I believe I should be doing so now? Everything dependent on the next scan’s results. No. No. No.</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">It’s true, I don’t know the future. I don’t know what these results will be and I don’t know what this year will bring. That is definitely a more pronounced way of thinking these days. But did I really have any guarantees in all of the other Januarys of my 54 years? No. I just thought I did. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">But this year has been different. If I’m honest I’ll tell you that it was kind of a rough weekend and I really wasn’t prepared for it to be so. I didn’t see the attack coming. I’ve always loved the New Year. Always loved to celebrate and anticipate and participate. I’ve always welcomed it with wide open arms and heartfelt expectation. Always. Except this year the New Year’s Eve party felt painful. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">The new year didn’t feel happy, it felt scary. I'm sure that’s true not just for me, but for others out there as well--your own diagnoses, broken relationships, shattered lives, rebellious children, lost jobs, missed loved ones, dashed dreams, and failed plans. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">When you’re not feeling whole, holidays can feel pretty lousy. I’m learning a little more about that these days. All weekend I was seeing and hearing those little New Year’s slogans like, <i>“Cheers to the New Year!” </i>and <i>“The best is yet to come!” </i>And though I tried to rally, I found myself only wanting to run fast from the phrases. </span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Because what if it’s not? What if my best years are already behind me? What if. What if. What if. I know what my diagnosis says these years ahead can be, and so why would I ever want to usher them in? Why welcome something so unwanted? What exactly is the future when you are feeling unbelievably fragile?</span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">Now, I realize that last paragraph is fraught with some pretty miserable stuff. Maybe I should have started this post with some kind of disclaimer. But I think it’s possibly important to be aware that not everyone feels like champagne bubbles and fireworks when occasions call for them. I had a little taste of that this year. It was hard to swallow. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">But, you know what’s amazing? Even in these really raw feelings and vulnerable moments, God continues to show up. He continues to show Himself in a myriad of ways. He continues to use others to speak to me. He continues to remind me of His faithfulness and His power and His mercy and, mostly, of His great love.</span></p><p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: x-large;"> Just yesterday when I was sharing some of my feelings with my oldest daughter, Emily, she ministered to me. I told her how hard that phrase <i>“the best is yet to come”</i> has been for me to hear. She stopped me and said, <i>“Mom, but YOU KNOW the best IS yet to come. We will someday be with Jesus in heaven and THAT is the best to come.” </i> And she is so right. So right. So wise. So spot on. It was like a switch flipped and my darkness literally lifted. What inexpressible joy to have your child remind you that the best years will be our years with Jesus. Honestly, does anything else even matter in the context of eternity? </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">I know some of you, on occasion, find little scraps of encouragement in my words. I’m so glad you tell me that. But I want you to know, it’s hard. I’m in the hard. I’m in a fight. A battle. Every day. Every single day. So much of it right now is mental and fear related. And though God keeps showing Himself to me, I still have some really weak and scary days. I won’t ever lie to you about that. I won’t ever pretend it’s all easy just because I’m a Christ follower. Being a Christian means I have great hope in life, but it doesn’t mean life will be easy. I am learning every day what it means to trust Jesus with the good and with the hard. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">And so tonight as I prepare to think about yet another PET Scan tomorrow, I want to boldly share with you my resolution for 2023 —</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><b><i>To trust Jesus more. </i></b></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;">That’s it. Nothing fancy. Nothing elaborate. Just more trust. I’m not asking to better understand his plan for me. I’m not asking for more clarity. I’m not asking for more certainty. I’m just asking for more TRUST. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><b><i>Trust. Yes, I guess that’s also going to settle the question of my word for 2023 --- Trust. </i></b></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>“You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you.” Isaiah 26:3</i></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>“The Lord is my strength and my shield; in Him my heart trusts, and I am helped; my heart exults, and with my song I give thanks to Him.” Psalm 28:7</i></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>“And those who know your name put their trust in you, for you, O Lord, have not forsaken those who seek you.” Psalm 9:10</i></span></p>
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<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><i>“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make straight your paths.” Proverbs 3:5-6</i></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20px;"><br /></p>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3783119705498557355.post-82961593977940499902023-01-02T09:00:00.003-06:002023-01-02T09:00:48.099-06:00As It Should<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Montserrat; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKabrsR_G7x-gm-ceNqyjykxot6twuxxKusr-HrlwCf6wTBgEy8rMHFTg78EZbiXgUil-o2Kx0IMA18yYn8ktp_N7oIcWe_A45k3TQLlEbsETPDIm8QA4aA0jAOWMG1EhSGGZkWdigX84gyZ5a6j9ZE7Itjj21xF46DtF7BnkLEp55x5WHWn5umJ4M/s3840/IMG_2222%203.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3840" data-original-width="2715" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKabrsR_G7x-gm-ceNqyjykxot6twuxxKusr-HrlwCf6wTBgEy8rMHFTg78EZbiXgUil-o2Kx0IMA18yYn8ktp_N7oIcWe_A45k3TQLlEbsETPDIm8QA4aA0jAOWMG1EhSGGZkWdigX84gyZ5a6j9ZE7Itjj21xF46DtF7BnkLEp55x5WHWn5umJ4M/w453-h640/IMG_2222%203.jpeg" width="453" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></div><p></p><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">The oldest have all left now. Left for their homes and their states and their boyfriend and their girlfriend. And it's just the youngest home with Rick and me.</span><div><span style="font-family: Montserrat;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Montserrat;">Chinese takeout ordered. Movie ready to play. <br />And it is different. <br />But it is good. <br /><br />Our kids grow up and go on. They go off.<br />As they should. <br />As they want.<br />As we want.<br /><br />Life can’t stay the same. Nor should it. <br />We make the moments and we make the most of them— the minutes, hours, days and years. <br />As we should. <br /><br />Soon 2022 will come to an end. An end to this year’s good and to its hard.<br />As it should.<br />As we want.<br /><br />We wait for 2023 with open arms. <br />Where there will surely be new good and new hard. <br />New comings and new leavings.<br />New trials. New triumphs.<br /><br />Like every year before.<br />And it is good. <br />Good. </span></div>jodymcnatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04722839896493373009noreply@blogger.com0