A Valentine's Day Encounter + Gift

A heavy door, a handful of balloons and a windy day could easily qualify as an Olympic sport in my mind. That was the scenario which played out while attempting to extract myself and my heart balloon cache from the Dollar Tree Friday afternoon.

On top of it all, I sensed someone behind me also trying to leave the store, and, of course, felt compelled to politely hold the door. Add this extra layer to my exit and it was most definitely a task tricky enough as to require extreme athleticism from my balloon burdened body. 

I held the door and then I heard her voice. 

“God bless you, my dear.”

The tiniest little elderly lady holding three of her own heart- shaped balloons came lightly out of the Dollar Tree door with me. For a quick minute she and I and all our balloons almost became tangled up together like one big Valentine’s Day disaster. 

But it wasn’t the intertwined balloons which drew me in, it was her voice. And her words.

“Oh my, what a day! Love is in the air!”

I nodded in agreement. “Yes, it is.” I lamely offered, hoping to get on quickly to my car.

“But love is always in the air,” she continued, “because God is love!” 

Again, another exuberant response from me: “Yes," I smiled, He is." All the while trying to remove myself from the store, and, if I’m honest, from further conversation with this seemingly nice lady. 

But she persisted. “Do you know Him? Do you know the love of Jesus?” 

I stood there, my balloons dancing uproariously in the late winter breeze, and I finally looked into her face fully. It was pure sweetness. Nothing was off at all. There were no wild eyes or crazy hair or strange countenance one might notice in a persistent stranger conversation. No street corner, sign holding screamer anywhere to be found. She was the embodiment of joy and peace. That sounds awfully cliche, I know. But it is true. That was exactly what I thought staring at this little wisp of a woman in her cute cheetah print coat and red and white Valentine’s Day scarf with hands holding three pink balloons. 

I stopped and smiled. “Yes, I know Him. I know His love.” 

Her face grew even brighter. “I’m so glad! It’s why I tell everyone I meet about His love. It is everything. I can’t not tell others. I absolutely can not.”

By this time we had managed to make our way toward the parking lot. She came closer to my car, “I want the world to know of God’s love. It has changed my life. And I am so sad for those who don’t know it.”

There was an earnestness about her.  Again, nothing off or strange, but a beautiful intensity in what she was saying. I was ashamed of my obvious desire to not engage with her. It was a busy day. I was running late. I was trying to get to my mom’s assisted living to drop off some balloons and cookies for her care team and my day had already gone a bit sideways. I had no time to stop and talk to a stranger about anything. Not even Jesus, apparently. 

But when I finally called out these cross thoughts running in my head, I was immediately embarrassed for myself. “Seriously, Jody. You are in such a rush to go show love, you can’t stop and talk a minute about Jesus’ love? Shame on you.” 

The little lady was oblivious to my internal dialogue and didn’t miss a beat. “I’m afraid for all the people in this world who don’t know Him. This world is so sad, so broken, so lost. There is much pain. Everywhere I look I see it.” 

There were tears in her eyes as she continued sharing, “I have a brother who is sick. He has been in the hospital since January. He doesn’t know Jesus. I wish I could change that.”

We stood facing each other. Our balloons still billowing. Our eyes locked on one another. And I nodded, “I understand. I too worry about people I love.” 

“My brother’s name is Ashok,” she offered. 

“I will pray for Ashok.” 

“Bless you, my dear.”

And we hugged. With all of our balloons. With all of our love for Jesus. With all of our sadness for this world.

And then she was gone. This lady—tiny in stature, but tremendous in her love for Jesus and the telling of it to others. 

I got into my car and realized I had never asked her name. I wish I had. I usually do. But I have her brother’s name. And, what’s more, I have a moment impressed deeply on me to be bolder, stronger, and more earnest in my telling and talking of Jesus. 

Because as she said, “How can I not?”

Her exuberance was inspiring. How can we know the love of Jesus and not feel compelled to share it with others? If this petite woman could be so bold, how can the rest of us walk around mindlessly with our errands and our tasks and our busyness and forget easily about the most important message we have for this weary world? "Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations." Matthew 28:19. Go therefore and tell others of His love whether we are at the Dollar Store or the grocery store or the gas station. Talk about God's love. Show God's love. 

Why is the news so good and yet the task of telling often so hard?

This Valentine’s Day moment with Ashok’s sister and my sister in Christ was a gift so much more beautiful than any chocolate or flowers or heart-shaped balloon. 

It was the gift of God's love. 

“Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.” 1 John 4:11 

"Let brotherly love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unaware." Hebrews 13:1-2

The Elevator Ride

 

The doors opened and in they all piled. Loud, laughing and each with an armful of old photo books. Hoping to make some extra space, I pulled my mom's wheelchair further back into the corner of our tiny elevator. But, even so, we were pretty much nose to nose with these new riders. And when you find yourself nose to nose with strangers it's probably best to just go ahead and decide to be friendly and acknowledge one another as cordially as possible in such a tight space. 

And so our pleasantries began. 

Without me inquiring, the three men cheerfully offered they had  just been to see their dad who lives up on floor three. 

"You're all brothers then?" I asked. The resemblance was indisputable. 

Like a mischievous trio of school boys, they laughed and nodded.

 "Yes mam! We sure are," said one of the middle-aged brothers.

"Nothing we can do about it now," chimed in another.

More laughter. 

I chuckled a bit too. "Brothers!" I thought to myself.

Three middle-aged men with arms full of photo books and faces full of mixed emotions. That is what had climbed into the elevator with mom and me.  And we all stood there tightly together waiting for the doors to close. My hands wrapped around the wheelchair handles. My mom quietly taking it all in--Probably watching them closely lest they attempt to snatch her pocket book which she no longer carries. 

Our slightly awkward conversation continued as we all stared earnestly at the gaping opening of our elevator. Minutes ticked by.

It's probably a universal thing in assisted living communities, but the elevator doors at mom's apartment are the slowest closing doors in the state of Georgia. For obvious reasons, I suppose. Normally, when I get on this elevator, I am quick to push the "door close" button, but I was definitely too tucked away in the back of this elevator box and to do so would have required even more awkward and possibly uncomfortable contact with these men. And friendly or not, my mother would have been quick to remind me: "Jody, they are strangers." =) 

And so I resisted. 

And so we waited.  

It felt like we stood there ten minutes making small talk and hoping for those heavy mechanical doors to finally meet in the middle and signify the time for movement.

In those minutes (hours?) of waiting, I couldn't help but notice that lovely, jovial ease of brotherhood between them.  I wouldn't have been a bit surprised had one brother playfully punched the arm of another as they bantered back and forth. 

Having a couple of boys of my own it is something with which I am quite familiar. And, even more so, something for which I am immensely grateful. Their goofy grappling and guffawing can get my boys through pretty much anything. Nothing is off limits. Nothing too sacred or serious for a little brotherly braying. There is almost no situation which can't be solved or at least lightened a little with some boyish horsing around and, on occasion, some unsavory sorts of humor. Trust me on this.

The doors finally closed and down we went. Our elevator ride over and I didn't know much more about these brothers. I didn't know how old their father or how ill or how long he's been living here. I didn't ask. It didn't matter though. I had all the information I needed by the time we reached the ground floor and parted company. I watched them hug each other and then head out the doors and off to their own vehicles. 

We went on our way as well. I pushed my mom's chair down the hall, and with every turn of her wheels, what I did know is those men from the elevator--those siblings--they clearly had each other. And without knowing anything more about them--who they were or what their story might be--I knew, as brothers, they weren't alone. They were in this together.

And that is everything. 

It's everything in this new season of navigating a parent aging and in need of more assistance. There is so much. So many discussions. So many decisions. So much for which to solve or plan or process. So many worries and what nexts. 

We are in the throes of this new stage in our own family. We've been here for a good bit especially since moving our mom into assisted living 18 months ago. We've made some mistakes. We've made some changes. We've also learned a million lessons. What to do. What not to do. 

Maybe what we've learned the most is the impossibility of doing any of this without one another. I cannot imagine this particular journey without my three siblings. I think of that often. 

I don't always have them in the elevator with me. But I have them. They are always there. Just a phone call away. I have climbed into this very same [slow] elevator and made the immediate call to one of them. For answers. For feedback. For support. For someone just to listen to my story or talk me off the ledge or comfort me in my tears. 

Someone who knows me and knows us. Someone who knows intimately all the details, history, idiosyncrasies, and difficulties. 

Even the dearest of friends can't always be that person. It takes a brother or a sister. Someone who also calls my mother by the very same name--"mom." 

I have thought a million times how grateful I am there are four of us doing this very hard-holy thing together. It is brutal. It is necessary. It is not at all what we imagined.

And that was what my encounter today with the three men in the tiny elevator reminded me of---The indescribable gift in sharing life with siblings. The beautiful, joyful, wonderful. But, even more so, the very hard, the holy, the holding on.

I never got the names of the three elevator brothers or the name of their father on floor three. 

I don't need to know their names.

I know they are all of us.

Plastic Crates & Precious Childhood

 

Every year, when putting away our Christmas crates, I feel the intense stares from the “other” plastic crates sitting sedentary, slightly dusty and very impatient on their shelves in our basement storage room. They glare at me. Call to me. Cry out— “It’s our turn! Open us up! Organize our contents! Purge our papers! Whittle down our detritus!”

I know plastic crates can’t really talk. But if you store up enough of them over multiple decades of marriage and parenthood, trust me, they begin to become a bit sassy, if not a little snide and sinister. 

So this was the year. This was the January where I was going to face the music and bring some real order to the mess and mayhem in our storage area. 

It was high time. Three of the children are all the way through school and completely out of the house. The fourth is about to graduate college and the youngest is scheduled to start her senior year of high school in 2025. We are getting close to wrapping up these busy and crate-busting educational years with a big bow. Not quite there, but close enough for this project to feel right in its timing.

I’ve always tried to keep things under control. The crates had labels. There were some paltry attempts at order, but, nonetheless, when multiplied by five kids and, what seems, a thousand moves the contents of these crates had become decidedly overwhelming. 

Even with these formidable feelings, I still somehow became motivated. I want to be the one to go through these things. I don’t want to leave it all for my kids to figure out. I don’t mean that to sound morbid, but there’s truly no time like the present. We just don’t know. Gosh, that’s one lesson I’ve learned lately. Right now I feel good and clear-headed and quite capable. Now is the time. 

And so I began. One child, one crate, one crumbly art project at a time. I spent most of my week buried in our basement pouring out the contents of plastic crates and pouring over my kids’ words and pictures and notes and school projects. Yes, it was a monumental task, but more than anything it was an act of joy walking down this particular memory lane. We’ve been collecting bits and pieces of our children for almost three decades. Again, multiply that by five and it added up to a lot of stuff. A lot of heavily glued macaroni noodle masterpieces!

I had oodles of fun sending to our family group text photos of their artwork, their silly notes, their poems and projects and pictures. I think they all had a few good laughs as well. It was entertaining for them to see each other’s funny spellings and awkward writings and drawings. There was lots of laughter and teasing back and forth in our text thread this week. 

It also brought a renewed sense of perspective. Each one has come so far. The child who couldn’t hardly spell her name in Kindergarten. The kid who couldn’t color inside the lines or finish his math facts fast enough. The one who wrote me literally endless letters of apology because that was how she processed after getting herself in trouble. I remember those moments. I remember wondering if my son or daughter would ever get it. Get their act together. Get their ducks in a row. Learn to count the ducks in a row. 

If you’ve parented even one child, you know what it is I mean. We just naturally have some worries as we watch them learn and grow. Leap and … sometimes fall or fail or crash or never seem to catch on. We’ve all been there. It’s such a process. Each child on their own timeline. In their own way figuring it out. Each child with their own strengths and weaknesses which so often lead to our worries and what ifs. And our job to keep on correcting, coaching, cheering, challenging. Definitely to keep praying. It’s exhausting. And yet, it’s exhilarating. Because life and love are both things most always. 

Several times this week I found myself in tears as I remembered their frustrations and my own failures as a parent. There are so many. The path is strewn wide and deep with them. The crates told the stories and reminded me of long forgotten lessons. There were also sweet joyful tears and deep gratitude to read the beautiful handmade cards, poems and love notes from our children. Funny drawn pictures from when they were so small to their thoughtful notes and letters in more recent years. I treasure them all. I made one box for me and one for Rick which included all of their love offerings to each of us. 

What a gift it is to (sometimes) save things.

My goal was to get each child down to two big plastic crates a piece. Two crates from birth to college which would hold all of the important or precious items of these years. I wasn’t entirely successful. The girls were especially hard. So I did my best and decided not to worry if it took an extra crate or two to contain their lives. 

These crates all lined up are only a tiny part of the story. There’s absolutely no way to capture all of these bursting years of childhood in four walls of plastic with a lid. Not possible. Not even close. These are nothing more than a snapshot or a hint of who they were and what they’ve become. I might have been able to whittle down the detritus a bit, but there’s no whittling down of our lives together. It is really for them to have and go through some day perhaps with their spouse or children. 

I’m so glad I saved what I did.

I’m actually a purger by nature. I don’t love clutter. I don’t love things sitting around which someone else might be able to better use. Ask my kids how many trips they have taken to Goodwill or some other donation location. Just this past Christmas Connor hauled off another load in the back of his pick up truck. It’s never ending. 

We are always getting rid of stuff or giving it away. But I’m so glad I saved the things I did. Even though I tossed a lot this week, it was wonderful having the chance to hold their little selves in my hands again for a few brief moments of motherhood. Strangely, as emotional as some of that was, I felt no desire to go back. I mean sure I’d love to redo a few things or revisit a day or a special moment with young kids, but the truth is, I love having my older kids now. I love having this chance to see the full scope. I know there’s more ahead. I pray there’s much more ahead that I get to experience with them. But I’m so grateful for these amazing few decades of motherhood which aren’t only contained in a good number of plastic crates, but which are much more so captured in my heart. What a gift to watch our children grow. To watch them grow up and go on and go forth. 

To know things like that little girl who couldn’t seem to learn to write her name graduated with high honors from college and is killing it in the work world right now. That boy who so often had to be dragged out of his bed each morning is now up early and at the gym before he heads into his office. I could go on, but you get it. They grow up. They figure it out. And all those challenges and failures actually help make them stronger in their futures. Even if right now it doesn’t seem that way, I encourage you young parents, keep collecting the bits and pieces and watch it happen. Keep praying. Keep believing. Keep encouraging your children. They are never too old or too far away to cherish what was and celebrate what is to be. 

The boxes I put all the saved notes, cards and letters from our kids. One for me. One for Rick.

The final product. Ready to be picked up or put back in storage.

A New Year

Everywhere I've gone this week. Everyone I've talked to. It has been the same thing. A big sigh of relief. An enormous exhale. A collective hoping. A universal embracing of the new year. Bring it on!

We all want it. Need it. Crave it. Come to it. Hope for it. Hang all of our hats upon it. 

New. New. New.

It's our January vocabulary. 

And I get it. I've always had a thing for cycles and seasons; a romance with new chapters and blank slates and fresh starts. I don't know about you, but I'm a do-over kind of gal through and through.

Let me take another stab at that! Another crack at it!

Let's start this game over! Whether it be basketball or board games.

Let's begin again!

 

Gosh. I'm an addict when it comes to another attempt and all things new.  Always hopeful I'll get it right. This time. Next time.

Confidently certain the second or seventieth time will be the charm.

And so that's what January does for us. 

Flip the calendar page and start again. Anew. Afresh. Awake. Always. 

Perhaps God intended this very thing. He wired us to know we desperately need do-overs. No matter who we are or how we've been living, we need clean slates and fresh starts.

It's exactly why He sent Jesus. 

It's exactly what He wants to do in our lives.

Renew. Refresh. Redeem. Rebirth. Restart. 

And it's not just a January gig, it's for eternity. Forever.

He washes away all of the old, the ugly, the offensive and He makes us clean. All clear. White as freshly fallen snow.

“though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool." Isaiah 1:18

We are so willing to try so much—New gyms and diets and classes. I read that the United States alone publishes over 15,000 self-help books each year. 

Except we can’t really help our selves. Not really. Sure we can learn to do things better. We can set goals and make resolutions, but that’s only going to take us to next January. Maybe, to just March. I know. I’ve been there. I’ve written the list and set the goals and tried all the tries. It’s so tiring. So tiresome.

But it isn’t January which gives us a clean slate, it’s Jesus. 

It isn’t the new year that gives us new life. 

It’s a new life which gives us a new year. 

Without that kind of new, it’s just the same old, same old. Again and again and again. You know. I know.

A month. A year. A calendar. A book. A list. A program. 

None of that is going to cut it. None can cut deep enough into our staunch-selves and stony-hearts. It simply cannot. If you’ve tried everything else, perhaps it’s time to try Jesus. He works from the inside out.

"I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will take the heart of stone out of your flesh and give you a heart of flesh." Ezekiel 36:26

There’s nothing we need to do, but seek Him. We don’t have to come all cleaned up and cleared out. That’s what He will do for us. Just come. As you are. Nothing else is needed. No paperwork, no pre-requisites, no dotted line, no nothing. Just come. What do we have to lose? Even that program or self-help book that we buy (and probably won't finish) will cost us more money. But life without Jesus will cost us everything.

Our hope is not found in the passing month of January, but in the Perfect Man of Jesus.

"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a NEW creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new."  2 Corinthians 5:17

Twas The Weekend Before Christmas

Twas the weekend before Christmas, and all the through the house,

There's a mother much stirring, perhaps a bit like a mouse. 

She's tearing and cutting and taping galore.

She's hidden away in a room with locked door.

Yes, this is gift wrapping weekend! And I bet so many of you are doing exactly the same. I don’t have many visions of dancing sugar plums in my head, but I always envision this wrapping task being finished much earlier in December. However, here I am in my kerchief and still wrapping gifts. The guy in his cap? Well, he doesn’t enter the wrapping scene so much. He does, however, get the credit for buying most of the gifts. So it all works out pretty swell for me. We have our lanes and we stay in them.

Gifts for Sally and Samuel and Meg and my mom.

Another for Karen and Kallie and Tom!

So wrap-away! wrap-away! wrap-away all!

Unless you were smart and had it wrapped at the mall.

I know for some it can be a mad dash. Mayhem. A crazy Christmas scramble. I remember those days waiting for the kids to be in bed so we could get it all done. I’ll never forget those late hours on Christmas Eve when we’d finally have a chance to pull out all the presents and arrange them around our tree. The excitement and expectation of it was ours on that night before Christmas. The children may have been asleep with their own holiday dreams, but Rick and I were the midnight elves reveling in our creation of the Christmas morning magic. It was both exhausting and exhilarating. 

We’d finally crash into bed for a few hours of sleep — there was absolutely no long winter’s nap at that point in life—and we’d wait to hear the pitter patter of tiny feet and the clamor of excited kids pulling us from our bed because Santa had come!

It’s quite different now. 

With grown children and no Santa believers in the house at the moment, we wrap gifts and place them under the tree at a more leisurely pace. And yet here I am the weekend before Christmas and still wrapping. Everyone will be home this year and even though we limit our buying, it continues to add up to a lot of scotch tape and bows.

But I love it so much. I love picking the papers and the real ribbon. I love creating the color scheme and making it all pretty. I know everyone has their own plan for this. And there is absolutely no right or wrong way. I realize my color coordination might be a considered a bit weird by others. Yes, it’s the gift inside which matters most, but the wrapping itself, I’ll admit, it brings me joy. It’s how I am wired. It fills my creative cup. 

When we moved to the South a couple of decades ago, I found out that some people down here don’t even wrap their gifts. It’s part of the Santa gig. He just brings them and there they appear come Christmas morning. Talk about magic! I’ve never been so sure about that particular practice, but I did question why it was all of us northerners were adding this extra wrapping step. The South hasn't gotten everything right, but maybe they were on to something with this whole no-wrapping thing.  And, I suppose that’s a whole other blog post.

But for me, the wrapping is part of the expectation. Because is it not that expectation of a gift that we all love? What is this? What could it be? What does it mean? What will it reveal? Is it really for me?

We might not all be Santa believers, but we are most certainly anticipators. All of us. I'm sure it is woven into our basic DNA. We eagerly wait and wonder and expect and hope. And that is what these gifts under our trees show us about ourselves: regardless of age or anything else, we love to anticipate.

Perhaps God created us this way so we might someday understand the expectation of a babe born in Bethlehem. A baby also carefully wrapped. A baby wrapped in swaddling clothes. A God come down and wrapped in flesh. The most beautiful present our world has ever received. The best news ever gotten. Our greatest hope lying in a manger. The weary world rejoices. This is the most amazing Christmas morning, but so much better. This is the expectation and the unveiling all rolled into one perfect present. 

This is the tired parents listening for the pitter patter of tiny feet and the cries of “Santa’s come!” This is the mad dash to the family room and the tearing into the terrific piles and the exclamations and shouts of joy. Dreams come true. And wishes exceeded. Times a million. And then, even then,  way better than that.

Because the baby come to earth wrapped in swaddling clothes isn’t just for a short moment on Christmas morning. It is forever. It is for always. It is for eternity. It is for everyone. 

It is the answer to that gaping hole of expectation in each one of us that no earthly thing—no matter how grand or great or beautifully wrapped or longingly wished for—can ever fill. 

It is the simple gift of a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. A baby come for the sole purpose of wrapping us up in His great and never-ending love. 

Oh come, oh come Emmanuel.

Come to save the weary world. 

Come to be our heavenly hope.

“Come that we might have life, and have it abundantly.”  ~ John 10:10

This Christmas as you gaze at the gifts around your tree, take a moment to remind yourself of the most perfectly wrapped present —  Emmanuel.

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.” James 1:17

This post may be over, but the mother's still wrapping.

The children and husband on her door they are tapping.

"Mom, we picked up some pizzas for dinner, alright?"

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

A Limp, a Glass Angel and a Very Lost Sheep

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do not be afraid!

I bring you good news!

I bring you great joy!

It is for all the people! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The One does matter that much.

You matter. 

Your limp in life matters. 

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

The Good Shepherd who carries it carefully home and rejoices.

Glory to God in the highest, indeed. 

Grandma Charlotta with us at our college graduation - May 1991