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

Mountains, Oceans and Fall Trees Across the Lake

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perspective. It is so important.

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

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

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

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

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

Isaiah 40 tells us, 

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

And further down in the chapter …

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

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

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

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

Take time to look. 

Take time to see.

Take time to know God.

The Good-Hard

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

So here it is—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Table Before Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God PREPARES a table before us. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has prepared a table for me.

He has a place card with my name written.

With your name.

He has a seat saved and a spot secured.

A chair is waiting.

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


He has prepared a table before me. 

Praise be to Him from whom all blessings flow.

Mondays + Forevers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moon and stars they wept

The morning sun was dead

The Savior of the world was fallen

His body on the cross

His blood poured out for us

The weight of every curse upon Him

One final breath He gave

As Heaven looked away

The Son of God was laid in darkness

A battle in the grave

The war on death was waged

The power of hell forever broken

The ground began to shake

The stone was rolled away

His perfect love could not be overcome

Now death where is your sting

Our resurrected King

Has rendered you defeated

Forever, He is glorified

Forever, He is lifted high

Forever, He is risen

He is alive

He is alive

The ground began to shake

The stone was rolled away

His perfect love could not be overcome

Now death where is your sting

Our resurrected King

Has rendered you defeated

Forever, He is glorified

Forever, He is lifted high

Forever, He is risen

You have overcome

We sing Hallelujah

The Lamb has overcome.