But What if the Morning Doesn't Bring Joy?

"Weeping may tarry for the night, BUT joy comes in the morning." ~ Psalm 30:5

That's been our verse this week. Our JOY verse to memorize, meditate upon, and marinate our weary souls in. 

And I believe it. I believe it is true. I believe it is a promise of our True God.

But [still] I have to ask the hard question some of us want to ask --- 

What if the morning doesn't bring joy? 

What if wake up in our new day and the news isn't good? Or that phone call comes? Or the pink slip is given? Or the drugs are found? Or the loved one is sick? Or the marriage is gone?

What then? 

What happens when THAT is what our morning looks like?

Well, if you're willing to read on a bit, I can tell you from my experience.

I had no sooner posted that verse and invited y'all on a joy journey at the beginning of this week, when my blood results dropped their sorry selves into my portal early Monday morning. I woke up ready for that "joy comes in the morning" feeling, but instead came news that my blood work is continuing to trend toward cancer's progression. 

Quick cancer explanation: doctors are following me with a new test called Signatera. It is new science, very accurate and very sensitive as it tests my blood and compares it to my original tumor. It measures  the shedding of cancer cells per molecules of bloodn (ctDNA). It can basically see cancer progressing even before appearing on a scan. It's helpful information, but so new, that doctors aren't even quite sure what to do with it. I had several negatives early on, but the past several months have shown positive. More on this later.

Anyway, the news was not at all what we hoped for. My number actually took a big jump up. Cancer is brewing. I've been pretty stable for 3 years and the cancer has appeared to stay sleepy, but these results are pointing to new growth or activation. Not at all what we wanted. The doctors will move up my scans --- April 17th I will have a PET scan and we will take a closer look.

So that's that business. 

But back to joy. I know some of you want to know what is Jody going to claim she believes now? Maybe a few of you are wondering what in the world did I just encourage you to all sign up for? 

Yeah, I get it. I know how you feel.  I had that discussion with God right away Monday morning. It went something like this, "Lord, I want to pursue joy. I do. I want to chase it each day and share it with others. I want to live glorifying Your Name. But you're making it kind of hard here. You gave me this plan and then you've kind of blown it up right out of the gate. You told me JOY was to be my word this year, even though I refused it at first. You were relentless. But now this? Journey to joy and yet Jody gets bad news right off the bat of acknowledging her need for joy. What the heck is that all about? What am I supposed to do with that nonsense now?"

And, like He so often does, He whispered His words tenderly into my broken and sad spirit---Jody, my daughter, this isn't Me dropping the ball. This isn't Me turning my back on you. This is Me pointing you to a deeper truth, a deeper trust, a deeper treasure. Trust me. Trust me. Trust me. I love you. 

Even though I was still kind of mad and sad, I told Him I would continue to trust Him. I know it is what I must do. Even with this disappointing news. Even now. Even this.

In the words of holocaust survivor Corrie ten Boom: "Joy runs deeper than despair." 

And over the past few days God continues to remind me about what joy is and isn't---

Joy isn't something that happens when everything is going great. 

Joy isn't something that occurs only when the news is good and the results are what we want.

Joy isn't only for days of sunshine. It is found in storms as well. 

Joy isn't dependent on our circumstances or our current situation or the status of our personal lives.

I know I've shared this before, but I can't help keep coming back to the wise words of Elisabeth Elliott. "The secret of JOY is Christ in me--not me in a different set of circumstances."   

Being dealt a better hand of cards isn't where joy is to be found. But that lesson is SO hard to learn.  For all of us. It is easy to find ourselves living in the world of "if onlies."   If only I was happily married. If only I had more children. If only I had less children (sorry, =) that was for the sake of humor). If only I had a better job or a bigger bank account or a nicer house. If only I was thinner, prettier, smarter, richer, taller, stronger ... If only I didn't have debt, addiction, anxiety, cancer.

When God breathed Psalm 30:5 through the quill of David, "Joy comes in the morning," He was using a metaphor to remind us that this night or season or situation will pass and joy will come. Yes, dear ones,  joy WILL come. When we follow our Father and trust His hand, joy IS absolutely our end result whatever the results are right now. It is a joyful hope we are given to hold close as we walk closely with Him. 

The joy is in the beautiful expectation of what He is doing and what He will do. 

Tim Keller, said these wise words,  "for a Christian joy is always on the way, because the one in charge of us and in charge of our whole universe is our Father."  

Joy isn't a perfect life. Nowhere did Jesus promise that. In fact, it was quite the opposite. "In this world you WILL have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." John 16:33 

Right now while living in this broken world  -- Trouble!

Right now while living in this busted up life  -- Weeping.

But someday ... FULL and PERFECT JOY. 

But hear me, that doesn't mean we can't experience real joy in some way right now. We can and He wants us to chase it. He wants us to pursue a life closer to Him so He can show us real joy EVEN in the midst of real hard life. It's not going to be the joy of heaven. We are going to wake up some Monday mornings and get bad news, but because we get to trust in Him and walk with Him there will be real joy found even in real life. Even when the weeping continues on and into our mornings. 

Joy is coming.

Let's keep chasing it.  

Rick sent me that beautiful bouquet of florals on Monday after we received the not so nice news.
The flowers are gorgeous, but his message on the card is most precious. 

"Jesus did not promise to change the circumstances around us. He promised great peace and pure joy to those who would learn to believe that God actually controls all things." ~ Corrie ten Boom

Joy! Journey With Me - Week One

Recently I shared God’s prompting to make JOY my word for this year. Though it goes against my present circumstances and even against my very nature right now I found this word impossible to ignore. As I said in my last blog, I didn’t choose joy, it chose me.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to work at it every single day. In the spirit of doing so, I realize God’s Word is key. There is a natural arrangement and result when we deliberately train our minds and fix our thoughts. What we practice and profess does help determine what we produce.

As a mom, I said often to my kids growing up, “garbage in, garbage out.” They might have occasionally rolled their eyes at me, but it's true, if we are going to allow ourselves to watch, read or listen to ugly messaging, it is going to ultimately affect us. We have to be careful what we open the door to and invite in. Makes sense, right? My kids are probably more prone to believe me now that they have lived a little. 

I’ve always found Philippians 4:8 to be a good guardrail or filter. It instructs us to “think on these things.”  What things? “Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.” 

Think on THESE things.

For me, joy isn’t going to “just happen” because I wrote a blog post about it. Not even because I claimed it as my 2025 word. Nope. It will take much more on my part. It will take a good bit of deliberation, dedication, and, ultimately, doing something. 

Psalm 119:11 reminds, “Your word I have hidden in my heart…”

Hebrews 12: 2 instructs, “Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith …”

The Bottom Line: If I am serious about pursuing JOY this year I am going to have to get busy hiding God’s word in my heart and fixing my eyes on Him. 

Hiding and fixing — Notice these are, indeed, words of action!  So often we feel we can't do anything. And maybe we can't do anything to change our circumstances, but we CAN DO something to change ourselves. 

So, that’s the plan starting today. What’s more, I’d love to invite YOU along for the ride. Each week I will share a different JOY verse which I will be memorizing + meditating upon. I am 100% open to some company. There’s nothing to sign up for and nothing to buy, but let me know if you’re willing to walk along this road a bit with me.

Zero pressure, but it sure does feel like most everyone I talk to these days is desiring a little more joy in their life. If that’s the case, we can do something about it! 

We can’t always control our circumstances — our disappointments, disasters, diagnoses, demands, difficulties, debilitations — but we can absolutely DECIDE how we are going to respond to them and in them.  

That’s where joy comes in.

Each Sunday night or Monday morning I plan to share a JOY verse for us to memorize and meditate upon for that week. God’s word is powerful and it becomes even more alive when we choose to massage it deeply into our most vulnerable places.

Joy Verse Week One:

“Weeping may tarry for the night, but JOY comes with the morning.” Psalm 30:5

It has been a verse I’ve held close since I was young. I remember reading it after a high school break up. Silly now, maybe. But back then I remember being So Sad. So crushed. So rejected and the truth of this verse struck me maybe for the first time in my young life.

As miserable as I was all night long, things looked a little different in the light of new day. Nothing had changed. My circumstances hadn’t altered. My boyfriend and I were still broken up. But, yet, something had somehow shifted in the light of morning.

That shift allowed me a little glimpse into the truth that I would be okay. I would get through this. I would not weep over this boy the rest of my life or, truth be told, even the rest of that week. LOL. [Gotta love high school romances].

That’s a silly little, long, long, long ago story, but I use it to illustrate the idea of how different things can look between night and day. 

Nighttime is so often hard for me. I assure you I am not weeping about boyfriends anymore (SUCH a funny thought)! No, it's heavier stuff these days.  In those middle of the night hours I am easy prey. I am open for attack. I am vulnerable. It is when the “what ifs” wrestle with me most. It is when I worry most. It is when I weep most. 

And yet each morning when I rise and see the sun and anticipate the new day, the joy somehow bubbles up inside me in ways I cannot begin to explain.  It declares over me a fresh start, a new beginning, anticipation and expectation. I find myself almost surprised. How can this even be? It is, truly, a night and day difference. That simple shift from night to day is everything. I don’t even quite understand how it happens. But it does. And the Bible tells me that is how it works. And, yet, still I find myself baffled. 

I want to remind you (and me) whatever we are going through isn’t forever. Not even me with a terminal diagnosis. It is not forever. Weeping may tarry for the night, but JOY comes in the morning.

Let’s remind ourselves of that truth this week. 

So for this first week of my JOY journey let’s go ahead and do the following —

MEMORIZE Psalm 30:5 

MEDITATE upon it.

and MASSAGE God’s promise into our most vulnerable places this week. 

Yes, there's not always much we can do about that weeping at night, but we can remind ourselves that in the new light of day, we will find a bit of joy again. We might have to look. We might have to choose. We might even have to chase it, but, rest assured, it will be found.

 “Weeping may tarry for the night, but JOY comes with the morning.” ~ Psalm 30:5

The Word Is

I couldn’t write about it in January. I tried a time or two in February, but here it is now past the middle of March and I am still struggling to get this post out there.

It seemed everyone else was sharing their “word for the year” in a timely fashion. And though mine was also sitting ready and waiting and incredibly clear, for some reason, it felt too raw and I felt too unready to fully claim it. 

Truth is, the word felt too unrealistic. 

I don’t always choose a word. It’s a great practice, but not one in which I regularly engage. Maybe it’s because, verbose as I am, there seem to always be more than a few possibilities flitting around inside this woman’s wild brain. 

Like the flowers in my yard. How can I possible choose just one? So many favorites. For so many reasons. Books also fall easily into this same category. Too many to count. Desserts? Yes, those as well. So as tidy as a top ten list can be, I don’t often take part in this particular practice. 

This January, however, the word wouldn’t escape me. I kept seeing it everywhere. Even when I tried to ignore it, turn it away, deny it's knocking at my door. It kept popping up in the most peculiar of places. I’d open a book. I’d glance at a sign. I’d see it on social media or read it on a bumper sticker on the car ahead of me. It would come up in conversation.

Everywhere I looked, there it was — JOY. 

The clincher occurred when driving down my street one day. I was literally debating with myself about whether I was going to accept this word when I happened to look left and there it was in enormous life size letters in a neighbor’s front yard - J O Y! I laughed out loud. Leftover Christmas decoration for sure, but still hard to miss it’s bold proclamation - JOY! And the deal was done -- JOY would be my word for 2025. 

I didn’t choose joy. Joy chose me.

But I continued to argue—Come on, God. It’s really not the word for a girl with a diagnosis like mine. It’s just not. Trust. Hope. Peace. Strength. Faith. Those seem to be much more appropriate, right? 

So, really, what the heck am I supposed to do with joy?

But, like it or not, that was the unavoidable word in my head since early January. In my head and in my heart. The message was clear:

“The JOY of the Lord is my strength.” Nehemiah 8:10

But joy isn't always what most marks my days. It's been three years with this cancer business, and frankly, I’m a little over it. I told my girlfriends recently, I’d like to move on. I’d like to move off this script and out of this groove and on to some other things. There are so many other things I would rather do. Things I want to do.

This story line is getting a little worn out. 

This woman is growing more than a little weary. 

I’d like a change. I’d like to think about something other than cancer. Every day. All the time. It is a heavy, low hanging cloud over my head. Others can’t really see it, but I promise you, it is there. Dark and stormy and more than a little ominous.

So I suppose it was almost like a switch finally flipped this year. Cancer isn’t going away, but I still have some skin in this game. I still have a some say on how I am going to live with this yuck. I spent the first three years navigating all the not so nice things about metastatic cancer. It took me every single day of all three years — 1,095 days — to finally figure out that if I am going to truly live with cancer, I must make some changes to pursue joy. There was work to be done.

I know it looked like I was maybe already doing that. I was certainly trying. But, letting you in on a secret, I often felt a little fake. I was a fraud. I was, at times, just pretending to have joy. More often than not, inside of me was a battle brewing and a war a-waging. 

I could be hosting a party or having a good laugh. and yet still … there was a dread level so deep and so high I found myself choking on it at times. Coughing. Sputtering. Running into the bathroom for fear I would throw up my fear. I was liable to spew the anxiety most anywhere. I left gatherings abruptly. I ended conversations quickly. I fled from groups of women laughing or complaining about topics like “getting old” or talking about the “someday we will” kind of stuff. I developed a low tolerance for shallow and an aversion toward chit chat. It is still hard. 

I don’t know how you can be given this kind of news and not have it be so.

Before this nasty diagnosis, I had people who liked to label me a bit of a Pollyanna. Perhaps there was some truth to that. I typically chose the sunny side of the street, but that is not even remotely possible these days. Call me fake, yes, but not flighty. I can pretend all is well, but I cannot push it into the category of pretty. Nope. Not one bit. 

And you know what?  That is not at all what my faith in Jesus requires. 

He doesn’t expect me to pretend all is well. 

He doesn’t expect me to put on a happy face. 

He doesn’t expect me to say nice things about my struggles.

No. He gives me full permission to be real, raw and rough. 

But even in that, I can still choose joy. Because joy isn’t a happy face. Joy isn’t a pretense. Joy isn't pretending. Joy is knowing what I know and facing what I face and having confidence that Jesus still holds me and my future in His loving hands. Joy is getting to actually believe that whatever happens God LOVES me and has promised GOOD for me.

Not to just say it, but to actually believe it. The difference is everything. 

Happiness is a trip to target or a new pair of shoes.  Joy is having no shoes and knowing God has toughened my feet for the places I must go.  [Target not necessarily being one of them].

Joy is also a choice. 

It is a choice we must make over and over and over again. Like maybe everyday. Every morning. When I first started down this unkind road I began a daily practice. I’d get out of bed and as soon as my feet touched the floor boards I’d declare Psalm 118:24, “This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.” 

That was it. That was all I could muster up for awhile. Just an out loud declarative statement to the walls of my bedroom.  Even though my stomach felt queasy and my legs shaky. Yep, it did feel a little fake and somedays it still does. But, even so, I knew it was good medicine for me. 

Because joy is also a training exercise, and, believe it or not, an act of obedience. I can’t rejoice if I don’t remind myself to rejoice. I can’t choose joy if I don’t consider it a choice or an option each day. It is an act of will. It then can become an act of worship. And that act of worship can then become who I actually am. It reshapes me. Worship helps ease the worry. Ann Voskamp said “The answer to deep anxiety is the deep adoration of God.” It's true, worship and anxiety simply cannot easily occupy the same space. One will always crowd out the other. 

So my mind must turn to worship. To praising God. All the day long. When my feet hit the floor each morning. When I stand at the sink scrubbing pots. When I am outside pruning or digging or raking or watering. Certainly when I wake at 2am and the darkness and demons of fear begin their relentless attack. Worship. Worship. Worship.

It is my best defense. My only offense. 

I grew up in a church where we sang the old Fanny Crosby hymn, Blessed Assurance, a lot. Like I might have rolled my 12 year old eyes at how much we sang it. Really? This song, again? 

This is my story, this is my song.  

Praising my Savior all the day long.

This is my story, this is my song,

Praising my Savior all the day long.

That’s the refrain. The word refrain as a noun means to repeat over and over again. I guess God knew I would need that song imbedded in my mind. I sure do now. I can still hear it in the house in which I grew up. My grandpa would sing it and my dad liked to whistle it. Now it is my voice I hear. And it is on repeat. All the day long.

This is my story. This is my song. 

I would never have signed up for this story, friends. You know that’s true. No one signs up for the hard things in life. But here we are. Me. You. All of us with something difficult. All of us with a story. All of us with the choice to turn that story into a song and learn to praise our Savior all the day long. 

Will you sing with me?

Let me say for the 1000th time. Nothing else will work. Go ahead and keep trying. We can try our self-help and self-healing and self-protecting and self-centered care. At some point we will find ourself at the end of ourself. Exactly where we started. Because our selves were never meant to be God. Boy do we try though. It is the very nature of our sin—self worship. It might be satan’s biggest and baddest lie.

It started with the whispered words of the serpent in the garden. “When you eat from that tree, you will know things you have never known before. Like God, you will be able to tell the difference between good and evil.” Genesis 3:4-6

Did you hear him? “You will know things.” 

Oh, he had her. You will be Like God. You will be your own god. You will call the shots. You will hold the cards. You will have control. You will determine your future. Plant your flag. Plan your steps. Plot your path. Write your own story. 

Who doesn’t want that? It is exactly what our sin-nature craves. All of us. No one excluded. The world tells us it's so!

Except then the story takes a twist. The plot takes an awful turn. Cancer comes. A job is lost. A friend betrays. Addiction takes over. Divorce blindsides. A child dies. A house burns down. A life goes up in flames.

At some point we all find ourselves in some set of circumstances we probably wouldn’t choose. We can hope the situation changes. And it might. Or it might not. And if it doesn’t we just might have to figure out how to live with it. 

Stage 4 feels a little bit like that. It isn’t curable. There is no end to treatment. No bell to ring. No finish line to cross. It is living every day with cancer already spread inside of me. I don’t exactly get a choice in what the cancer does. But I DO get a choice in what Jody does and who she is and how she desires to live the days God has already written for her. Years ago, when I was teaching, I often shared with my students a Lou Holtz quote, "Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you respond to it." I never dreamed cancer would be the thing which would put that favorite saying to the test for me. We don't dream of the hard things or the sad stories.  

Maybe the story becomes something you’d never agree to write. So what do you do? How do you fix it when it wasn’t what you had planned? How do you live with it when you can't fix it? 

There is no earthly answer. Like I said, go ahead and try all the 12 and 200 step approaches you want but  dear one we must surrender to the One who has already authored the end. Whatever the diagnosis,  whatever the results,  whatever the reality … surrender. And, maybe, choose joy. 

This is my story. This is my song. Praising my Savior. All the day long.

“I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through Him who gives me strength.” Philippians 4: 12-13

“Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”  1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

“The secret of joy is Christ in me—not me in a different set of circumstances.” Elisabeth Elliott 

*** One last thing! 

This week on the way home from a little hike with Bella she said "mom, let me play my new favorite song for you." 

And without knowing anything about my "joy" issues she played, "Cant Steal My Joy" by Brandon Lake and Josiah Queen. 

And so I listened to the lyrics of my daughter's new favorite song and I smiled, "Yep, okay God. Joy is my word."  

Saw this at our local Goodwill store!

The car ahead of me in traffic

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