Leaning and Bent

 

No surprise for this word-loving lady, but when I was a little girl I liked to take words apart and put new words back together. Even make words up. I’ve been told I still do that. 

Lent is one of those words that I can’t help but roll around in my mind like a marble in hand. I started writing about it a few weeks ago and then life went sideways. 

Lent: I don’t know about you, but I hear two words combined — leaning and bent. And, after these past 19 days, more than ever before, those two words feel right for this season. In this final week of Lent, I am leaning and bent in ways I never knew possible. In ways I never knew even existed. Hunched over and hunkered down in great grief. 

The word “lent” actually derives from the old English word lencten, meaning “spring.” That feels so contradictory, doesn’t it? I mean I know spring is beginning to take place all around me. I see the baby green of new leaf and the buds and the bulbs springing forth. I hear the birds and I bask in the warmer weather. It’s happening in my backyard, bloom by bloom, but in the midst of it I find myself more leaning and bent in ways too wild and wintry to even try to explain. I am surrounded by this spring season where everything points to the anticipation of new life, and yet, I am fiercely mourning my old one.

As a woman who pays close attention to the world outdoors, I know sometimes winter comes back when clearly unwanted. We get snow on daffodils. A deep freeze sneaks up and the bright cherry blossoms brown and fade overnight. In Georgia, I’ve even seen pristine pastel branches break with unexpected ice and wind. I have held them in my hands and thought, well, this sure doesn’t make sense. Can nature not be more gentle?

The seasons don't make sense.

Life doesn't make much sense.

I know that. You probably know that too. 

But still we kind of want to ask why doesn’t it? Should it not?

This God who ordered the heavens and the held the oceans and moved the mountains and called it good—why do some things feel so wrong and out of control in His ordered, orderly, well-ordained universe? 

Why do blossoms brown and daffodils bend low and branches of baby green break? Why does winter sometimes come crashing in in the middle of spring? Unexpected and unsuspecting. Unrelenting and uninvited.

Why are lives bright with color and joy and beauty stripped and strangled and snuffed out in an instant?

I have so few answers. Maybe none at all. Except even in this terrible winter of sorrow, I can’t help but see spring. I’ve tried my best to ignore it in these past 19 days. But even though my own world feels changed, cruel and cold, spring continues coming. It springs forth. It will. It always does. It can’t not. Even when disease and death have come knocking at our door. Maybe it's the tiny green leaf which feels so tender and tenuous. So fragile, so fleeting and exposed. That speaks to me. Life has proven itself so.

These mixed up, misconstrued seasons. God could surely make it all perfect and peaceful with only a word or thought, but this isn't paradise. A far cry from it. He shows us that through His creation and He told us that in His word. This isn't heaven. Instead we live in a fallen, most broken world which groans loudly for a Savior and some saving. A world which longs for something more than this earth could ever hope to entertain.

Some of us know it. We know what it is and Who it is for which we long. Some of us just know we long. But we all do it. Oh, how we long. It’s found in the cry of the newborn babe and the groans of the old gray man and every single person in between. This life is hard. Even when it looks good. Even when it mostly feels good. Even when it is good.

We want better. We want more. We want peace and perfection and answers and easy. And sometimes we just get more snow on daffodils to remind us this earth isn’t that place, but that paradise is coming. And Jesus is already there preparing a place for us. And it is perfect. The very best our world offers, a mere foretaste of what is to come.

He is there preparing. But, somehow, He is also here healing.

We are in the now, but not yet. And as hard as it is, there is something holy to be uncovered for us in this earthly struggle. Sometimes it looks like beauty and sometimes it just looks brutal. But like a woman with her eyes gazing into the woods, we must allow ourselves the gift of watching and waiting. For it is then we will begin to see the slow unfurling of future spring. 

And there is hope.

Because we grieve with hope and we know who our Jesus is and what He promises to do. Great is His faithfulness even in the fire of great pain.

He will unbend the bent. He will lift up the leaning. He will unbreak the broken. He will comfort the crushed. He will make straight the crooked. He will will quiet the chaos. He will restore the ruined.

He will. 

“And the one sitting on the throne said, ‘Look, I am making everything new!’ And then he said to me, ‘Write this down, for what I tell you is trustworthy and true.’”  ~ Revelation 21:5

“Look! The winter has passed, the winter rains are over and gone. Blossoms have appeared in the land, the time for pruning and singing has come." ~ Song of Solomon 2:11-12

No, the winter has not passed for our family this year. I feel like we will be digging out for a long time to come. But, even in our deep sadness, we are grateful for glimpses of seasons. We see signs of spring and hope for tomorrow.  And we are exceedingly thankful for all of you who continue to point us to Jesus and His never ending love in the midst of this never-ending, unrelenting and impossible loss. 

Oh dear ones, our Savior really does lean into and bend down daily to meet us where we weep. He comforts us. He carries us. He continues to remind us of the Cross where He has already conquered death. 

He make all things new--even the most unimaginable things. New. Praise His Holy name. 

"He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There sill be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." ~ Revelation 21:4

Sorrow and Hope

I am not sure I’ll ever have the right words to express the sorrow and suffering of this week. It has been unfathomable and unrelenting. Losing our husband and father whom we all adored so much leaves a wound so deep, a hole so massive, a pain so sharp, we can hardly catch our breath. The grief is crushing. This is not how it was supposed to be. 

We are forever changed.

But as I sit with this sorrow one week later, I am still certain of this —our Heavenly Father remains unchanged and unchangeable. He is still on His throne. He is God. He loves us. And not even this great tragedy can change who He is. 

We have spent much time this week thinking about the wonderful dad and husband Rick was. So many things to all of us—very much our absolute rock. We couldn’t help but consider how many of his beautiful characteristics reflected the character of our Heavenly Father. So often Rick modeled Jesus for us. He certainly pointed us to Him. And so, even now, in these darkest of days we know we must look to our Lord, lean upon Him, and not lose sight that He will see us through this wilderness. We grieve in the most unimaginable way, but as God’s children, we grieve with hope. Hope for our beloved Rick. Hope for our shattered lives. Even hope for redemption in this horrible loss. 

In Isaiah 43 God tells us, “I will even make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” Yes, even in the wilderness, even in the desert of devastation. He will make a way. We can’t quite see it right this very minute, but we trust Him. He will do it. He is faithful. 

The children and I are grateful for the outpouring of love. You are our people. You’ve shown up in the most incredible way being the very hands and feet of Jesus. How can we be both overwhelmed with grief and overwhelmed with love at the very same time? But we can. Some day I will tell the story. 

There are no silver linings, but there certainly are glimpses of gold. Treasure—even in the darkest of places. We knew that before as our family has traversed some hard things in the past, but we know it at a deeper level now in this most searing and unforeseen loss. Thank you for showing us God’s goodness and love. 

Tomorrow we will celebrate Rick’s life. Please pray for us.  I am entrusting you with a livestream link to the service tomorrow March 20th, 2026 at 11am. I know you will hold it with respect and tender care for our family. 

Richard McNatt's Celebration of Life

Obituary~Richard Elliott McNatt

Give to Promise686 in Honor of Rick

~ Psalm 42 ~

   As the deer pants for streams of water,

so my soul pants for you, my God.

My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.

When can I go and meet with God?

My tears have been my food

day and night,

while people say to me all day long,

"Where is your God?"

These things I remember 

as I pour out my soul:

how I sued to go the to the house of God

under the protection of the Mighty One

with shouts of joy and praise

among the festive throng.

Why, my soul, are you downcast?

 Why so disturbed within me?

Put your hope in God,

    for I will yet praise him,

    my Savior and my God.

 My soul is downcast within me;

    therefore I will remember you

from the land of the Jordan,

    the heights of Hermon—from Mount Mizar.

 Deep calls to deep

    in the roar of your waterfalls;

all your waves and breakers

    have swept over me.

 By day the Lord directs his love,

    at night his song is with me—

    a prayer to the God of my life.

 I say to God my Rock,

    “Why have you forgotten me?

Why must I go about mourning,

    oppressed by the enemy?”

 My bones suffer mortal agony

    as my foes taunt me,

saying to me all day long,

    “Where is your God?”

 Why, my soul, are you downcast?

    Why so disturbed within me?

Put your hope in God,

    for I will yet praise him,

    my Savior and my God.

 

⁵ 

With Heavy Hearts

 

The Music Man

The Music Man. This weekend Bella takes the stage for her very last high school musical. Like with every performance, she is having a ball. She loves everything about these spring shows. Her mother, however, sitting out in the audience, is more than a little weepy this week.

2026 and 1993
can't believe i still have this!

Anyone whose ever had a senior doing something she or he loves for the very last time knows of what I write. This profound joy and sadness all tangled up together. It’s mostly about Bella. But, with this particular show, it’s also feeling like a full circle moment for me.

The Music Man is our last child’s last show, but 33 years ago in a small town—not Iowa, but Ohio—it was my first show. In 1993 at Chagrin Falls High School, I directed my very first musical and chose The Music Man. I selected this show because I had once been in it for about a minute, and that flimsy fact alone gave me at least a shred of much needed confidence. 

My 1993 cast of The Music Man

I was just out of college, just married, just teaching my first year of high school English when suddenly and somehow I was dubbed Director of the Theater Department. I had only the slightest experience, but when you are young and hungry (and don’t really have a choice as a brand new teacher) you say yes. To everything. To coaching and advising and, yes, even to directing a huge cast of kids on stage at a good size public high school with a history of stellar productions. 

Directors also have to paint!

Intimidated or not, I couldn’t believe the talent I was handed. These students were incredible. I didn’t know all that much about what I was doing, but I knew immediately that I had to steward this role well.  And I had to figure out pretty darn fast all the thousands of details directing a show required.

I was maybe 23 years old--just a few years older than the kids in my classroom and those up on the stage--and I wasn't all that sure of myself.  Honestly, I sometimes felt a little bit like Professor Harold Hill trying to convince everyone around me I was legit and there really would be a boys band! Rat-a-tat-tat! I certainly “didn’t know the territory.”  In so many ways I was forced to create my own “think system.” If I just thought myself capable and in control, maybe I would be. Maybe I would be able to pull this production off. There is something to that, you know—the whole “fake it till you make it” thing. Sometimes that actually is what life requires of us. At least a little.

I grew up a lot in those early years of teaching and directing. I was handed an enormous task and I couldn’t help but grow. It was seriously a situation of grow … or go. The school and parents had tremendously high standards. The show must be a success. That much was clear. 

The crew surprised me with this!

I didn’t know everything about directing, but I did know how to work hard. I knew how to push myself and those around me to perform. It has always been a deep and wily sort of wiring—part competitiveness and part pride, I’m sure. Not necessarily always healthy, but definitely helped get things done. Long days, late nights, lots of drama filled blood, sweat and tears. Poor Rick, he didn’t know what to do with his young wife who was so ridiculously wrapped up in her too many roles and responsibilities. 

The pressure was immense, but so was the support. I had incredible parents who came alongside me. They brought food and cups of tea and encouragement. They came to sew and paint and hammer and clap for us. They taught me so much about community and caring for one another. I didn't know it then, but these parents modeled for me the kind of mother I would one day want to be. 

Lynn and me opening night

My director of music, Lynn Kleinman, was another tremendous model for me. Lynn was brilliant and wise and so extraordinarily winsome. She was the very definition of grace under pressure.  A musical perfectionist, but so lovely and loving no one ever really felt like they were being worked too hard. We all adored her. The kids wanted to perform for her. She showed me what it was to love people right into their roles—to bring out their very best by being a cheerleader, not a chastiser. Oh, how I admired this woman; my mentor, my friend.

Strangely, what felt so daunting and monumental somehow materialized into pure magic. I fell absolutely in love with these kids, my creative team and my role as their director. I was hooked. The Music Man had me marching in the band and blowing the horn of high school theater loudly and for a good many years afterward. 

33 years later and I am a mom sitting out in the dark audience clapping for her youngest daughter who is about to be all done with this. Though I wish I had it in me to still be directing and cheering and pouring into a cast of kids, I have very few regrets. These three decades have been so full with my own lively cast of five children. I've had the chance to be their constant teacher, coach, and director as I did my best in my role of raising them to adulthood. It has been my favorite stage and the best show of my life.  That season of directing high school shows eventually came to an end, and, not to be too somber, but I cannot ignore the fact that this season of raising kids is also coming to a close. Bella will be off at college in a matter of months. My role as mother is definitely looking more and more different these days. 

When I think back to that young, overwhelmed and underprepared, high school director I was, I have only gratitude in my heart. I am so thankful for what that challenge taught me. Grateful for the things I learned about life, about myself, and even about being a mom who would need to direct and produce so many things for her next 30 years. Directing The Music Man at such a formative time provided a chance to tackle something big and new and to show myself that challenges can change us in ways that easy things never do. 

The Music Man was a mountain for me. And there have been many mountains since.  But so often the mountains we face end up being the very places we get to stand tall and strong and, even a little proud. Without doubt, our mountains tend, also, to provide the very best views. We must only be willing to climb.

Tonight, as a mom and member of the audience, I don’t have to climb, but only to clap. And that’s exactly what I’ll do for our darling, youngest daughter. With a heart bursting full of band music, I will count it my joy and I will clap and maybe even quietly march a little from my seat. 

Seventy-six trombones led the big parade

With a hundred and ten cornets close at hand

They were followed by rows and rows 

of the finest virtuosos

The cream of ev'ry famous band!

And finally, a shout out to social media which has allowed me to be a little connected with so many of those high school kids I directed way back when. Tagging a few of you here and hoping all of you librarians, pick-a-little ladies and traveling salesmen are doing well. Oh how I love occasionally getting a glimpse of your own grown up lives! xoxo

Four Years Yesterday

Yesterday, February 3rd, marked four years since I was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. Hard to believe. Actually, still hard to believe. Actually, still really hard. 

On February 3rd, 2022 my life changed. Some of you know of what it is I write. There’s a date you hold as well. A date when something happened or some news was given and life as you knew it imploded. Exploded. Everything changed—your perspective, your approach, your trajectory, your outlook, your mindset … maybe, even your future. Changed. In the blink of an eye. Just like that. Altered. 

I had just pulled into my parking spot at Home Depot when the doctor called me and said, “I’m so sorry, Jody.” I have no idea what it was I was heading into Home Depot for, but I know, whatever the item, it didn’t get purchased that day. After ending the call and sitting in stunned silence for a few minutes, I somehow managed to put my car in drive and get myself home. I almost stayed right there in my parking spot and called my husband to come get me. But I just couldn’t break that news to him outside a home improvement store. This news wasn’t going to improve our home in the least bit and the irony felt too much. 

That was a heavy day. But let me skip ahead to the next day—February 4th—when I woke up and weakly opened my devotional and read these words: 

“Every day you preach to yourself some kind of gospel —a false “I can’t do this” gospel or the true “I have all I need in Christ” gospel.”

Please take a minute to read the entire devotional in the picture attached. You’ll see where I notated the date 2/3/22. 

That line: “When you face a disease that you thought you’d never face, what gospel will you preach to you?” That was the question I was faced with on the day after a grim, but certain, diagnosis. And what a message to read the morning after receiving this life changing news, right?

God didn’t waste a single moment. From day one of diagnosis He made clear my marching orders in this battle: Preach to yourself the true gospel, Jody! Preach the gospel that propels you toward courage and hope, not despondency and fear. Tripp in his “New Morning Mercies” devotional writes, “No one is more influential in your life than you are because no one talks to you more than you do.” So true. The constant conversation we have with ourselves fuels so much of what we think, feel and believe. That little voice inside our head has such an enormous impact on our lives. It is exactly why we must run toward truth. God’s Truth, not our own. The world so wants to convince us that we must pursue our own version of truth. Dear ones, there is no greater lie. We simply cannot achieve hope and courage from ourselves. Not even deep down. Not digging deep. Not trying hard. Not being strong. Not keeping on, keeping on. Sure we might for a minute or two muster up a few brave attempts. But not when the hard stuff hits. No way. After four years battling the mind game of stage four, I am more convinced of this than ever. 

These four years have stripped me of myself in so many ways. The fact that I can continue on with joy and purpose and hope is a testimony only to Jesus. Only to the power of Him at work within me. It has nothing to do with Jody. Oh yes, be sure, she used to pride herself greatly on her ability to hold it all together pretty well, but this diagnosis has completely crushed that flimsy, little crown.  And praise be to God. Praise God that He reminds me daily my fleeting earthly crown has been exchanged for an eternal one. I do not celebrate cancer, no, but I am convinced there are lessons learned and gifts given which prove far greater treasure because my flimsy crown of self-reliance has been utterly decimated with this diagnosis. And, again I write, praise be to God.

But … sometimes I do miss me. I miss that girl who could get it all done. I miss her confidence and capability. I don’t like being weak and having to rely on others. I hate the constant fatigue and feelings of never-ending exhaustion. I hate the attacks on my peace. I don’t like limping along like I am these days. But what if God is gifting me something greater than myself? What if your struggles and your hurdles and your hardships are doing the same for you? What if? Will it be worth it? Maybe not worth it right this very minute, but if we have eyes turned toward eternity it surely will. It depends entirely on our perspective—earthly or eternal. The here and now or the then? That. Is. Everything. 

What is the gospel you preach to yourself? Is it one of hope and courage or are you feeding yourself the evil one’s lies of despair and fear? And if so, how do we change the narrative in our heads? Will it take a life-altering diagnosis—I hope not—but there is a choice, even now. A choice to hear God’s voice through His Holy Word and His Holy Spirit. Ask Him. Ask Him to help you preach the gospel of truth to yourself. What do you have to lose other than your own flimsy, (good-for-nothing) earthly crown?

Go ahead. Ask Him. He will answer you and He will change you.

“I waited patiently for the Lord; He turned to me and heard my cry. 

He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire;
He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God.


Many will see and fear the Lord and put their trust in Him. Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord.” 

Psalm 40:1-4

Scooping Ice Cream

I was nothing more than a scooper of ice cream today. An ice cream scooper. That’s it. An old, and rather worn out mom serving high school seniors scoops of chocolate and vanilla on this cold Tuesday in January. That was it. That was all. 

And yet it was everything. 

Today was “senior treat day.” A day where the class parents do a little something special for the seniors—this group of kids that will be graduating in 17 weeks or so. Our children who we have been following closely from kindergarten who will be moving away from the school participation of their parents very soon. 

It’s not too soon. It’s exactly as it should be. The timing is, if not easy, then right. It is perfect, in fact. These kids God has given to us to steward and shepherd and bring treats to along the way of childhood. It has been a gift and a privilege. It has been my greatest calling as a woman.

How many cupcakes have we, if not baked, at least brought to our kid's class for birthday parties or Valentine's Days or some kind of something special program? Donuts, cookies, rice krispie treats. Can we even begin to tally it all up? It was never just about the treats, but about the touchpoints in the lives of our little ones. The times when our kids got to see us show up in some little way.

They may have gone through a cooler season where they rolled their eyes or hardly acknowledged our presence, but we came anyway. We got to walk through the doors and be the mom (or dad) with something in our hands for some always hungry school kids. We could see it in their eyes. Eyes and a smile which said, “this is my mom and she brought us something special today.”

I remember times when I barely got there. Times when I burnt the muffins or dropped the cupcakes or forgot the gluten free option. I remember the many times I had to balance the baked goods with a toddler in tow. Even times when I completely forgot to send something in altogether. It’s all a part of parenting.

I’ve been doing this school-treat type of dance for decades. Three decades, in fact.  And now only 17 weeks remain of our youngest’s senior year. I’m pretty sure bringing treats to her class in college won’t be a thing. Though I might try it out next year and see how that goes. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, Professor, but I have a plate of peanut butter cookies for the class. It will just take a me minute to pass them out and then you may continue."  Can you imagine? Maybe.

Please don’t worry about me, I certainly have plenty of other things which occupy my time and attention, this is not out of nothing else to do. I am writing today because it is just one of the many simple, small things which we get to do while we still have kids under our roofs. It is actually OUR treat. 

And I am also writing today to remind those of us who have begun our countdown calendars to make the most of these 17 weeks we have ahead. These ice cream eating kids will soon be donning graduation gowns and then going off into more grown up lives. As they should. 

So scoop that ice cream. Bake those brownies. Pack that lunchbox. Wash those favorite jeans. Have that late night chat. Crawl onto their beds and listen to whatever it is they will tell you. Do the small things. They are the big things.

Treat them. 

And treat yourself.

New Things, Old Cancer

our most recent (Christmas card) photo

I started seminary this week. It might take me three years to get my degree at the pace I’ll have to go. And maybe that feels a little odd for a woman stamped terminal to set her sights on something so far off in the future. I know. Trust me, I get it. I’ve wrestled with the idea of seminary for a long time. Wanting to do it, but wondering if it was wise. I decided recently I just can’t worry about that whole future thing. I’ve got to let it go and just go. So I went. It was a wonderful first class. 

Next month I will (not)celebrate the fact that I am 4 years into this stage 4 diagnosis. Four years at stage four. Back then everyone told me not to google it, but at some point I gave in and I googled. I had to know what a metastatic breast cancer prognosis looked like. And what it was was shocking. Three to five years. 3 to 5 years is what google gave me. I remember wanting to throw my iPhone across the room. Instead I threw myself on the sofa and sobbed. It was outrageous. It was criminal. It was uncalled for, unfair, unpalatable, unacceptable. It was UN-everything. 

It wrecked me for awhile. Even with my doctors assuring me new treatments were coming and  everyone’s story was different. It is hard not to crumble under the weight of those words; under the thought of three to five years. After scraping myself off the sofa, the do-er in me wanted to immediately begin sorting through the piles and boxes and corners of our life. Organize, order, arrange, purge and pare down. So much to do. So much to get on top of. So many loose ends of living. So much to consider, contemplate, corral.

My dad jokes that he is old enough not to ever buy green bananas. He’s 86. I’m 57 and, yet, I get that. The future has been a hard thing to consider at times. I tend to keep my eyes down a bit these days and don’t look too far ahead. I can’t. It scares me. I stare at my feet and I remind myself, “just one step at a time, Jody. That’s it. One foot in front of the other.” And even in the midst of feeling rattled and wrecked, I know that’s how Jesus told us we are to live anyway. One day at a time. “Give us this day our daily bread.”  Manna from heaven. Just enough for today. “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” Matthew 6:34

The birds of the air and the lilies of the fields—Our Heavenly Father feeds them and robes them and cares for them. He provides enough for each day. He does. He does. He will. He will. And if He cares for the birds and the flowers, how much more does He care for His children? 

It is not that we aren’t supposed to make plans. Plans are good. Goals can be great. It’s just that we all need to know life is fleeting and not forever. Make plans, but hold them loosely. We have today. We have no guarantee of tomorrow. Stage four or stage zero. 

I am about to be four years into this gig and I am still doing a super weird dance with it all. Life marches on. Even with a dire diagnosis and poor prognosis. I haven’t quite figured it all out. But I am daily asking God to show me. Daily asking for grace and strength and direction. And daily, more and more, aware that it has very little to do with me and my abilities and everything to do with leaning into Him and His power. 

I sat tonight thinking about the many good things He has allowed me to begin since receiving the bad news of a closer end. I decided to write them down and remind us all that it’s never too late to start something new. Even when stamped stage four. 

The list isn’t anything super stellar, but it’s mine, and I’m pleased that it points at a woman who has kept going. At least a little. Not by her own efforts. Not at all. Not one bit. But leaning heavily on Him even as she limps along. 

Since becoming stage four I have ---

Started a vegetable garden

Began keeping and caring for chickens

Taught myself to make sourdough bread

Became a grandma to Mimi and Fields (thank you Emily and Austin!) 

Traveled to 9 new countries

Brought my parents down to Georgia and taken on managing their care

Watched a couple more of our kids graduate college

Enjoyed our youngest and her 4 years of high school -- almost over!

Planned a few more galas for Promise686

Launched a small business with friends teaching Mahjong

And this week, started seminary!

Please, let me be clear. This isn’t a “yay Jody” list. This is a Thank you Jesus list. And I hope also an encouragement to YOU if you're battling the fear of starting something new. The truth is, all I really wanted to do (and still want to do quite often) was/is curl up in a ball, cry my eyes out and throw myself a pity party. But, dear ones, no matter what sucky circumstances we've been given, we have to move on and march forward. We simply must.

It’s a constant wrestling. Sometimes I do feel a sense of pride and sometimes I feel downright pitiful. Isn’t that how it goes for most of us though? This weird wrestling between prideful and pitiful? I think we all do it in some ways on some days. It’s kind of woven into our human nature. Neither very healthy, but both pretty real. 

Ephesians 2 reminds us, “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.” 

There’s nothing here to boast about, except Jesus. It is the grace He gave when He first saved me to new life and it is the same grace which sustains me and helps me to keep living this rather precarious life.

Anytime I begin to feel a little boastful about myself, this disease brings me quickly back. It keeps me humble. It keeps me hobbled. But it also keeps me held close. The truth is, if I was given full rein I know my fiery personality would take every single inch. It’s how I’ve always been. Always a get-it-done and do-it-myself kind of girl. Just ask my dad or my husband. I drive them both crazy with my independent, strong-willed spirit. 

So even though the Lord has allowed me to do some new things in these past four years, the lessons He is teaching me are gifts which far outweigh chickens or countries or gardens or galas. 

His daily words: Keep going, Jody, but keep leaning on me alone. 

“Not by might, nor by power, but by MY Spirit, says the Lord of hosts.” Zechariah 4:6

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Specific update: Today I have another PET scan. I just typed PEST scan accidentally. I had to laugh as it certainly does feel a more appropriate spelling. After four years of scans you’d think they’d be old hat. Not really. This one is especially ugly as I have recently received some lousy bloodwork which points to cancer growing somewhere in me. We’ve got to find it. But, of course, would rather not see anything new on today's scan. I am not sure quite what to ask you to pray for, but I bet those of you who pray will find the right words and, for that, I am so very grateful. 

 

Flipping Rocks

A couple of weeks ago I asked you to pray about some cancer blood work I was having.  And I guess it is only fair when you ask for prayers to let people know how things turned out. 

I know that. I do. And I am sorry if I've kept anyone wondering. It wasn't my intention. I am just in a place right now where I couldn't find the energy ... or much of anything. I feel so "done" with cancer. It's hard to explain how "done." Trust me, DONE.

And, yet, I'm not.  I'm not done. And I am daily reminded that I never will be. There's no bell to ring. There's no finish line to cross. Well, at least not on this earth. It is forever treatment. Forever. 

Somedays that is more than I can bear. There. I said it. It is simply too much. That's where I've been these past couple of weeks.  

So somedays I choose to think about other things entirely. Like Mahjong. I know some of you are wondering what the heck is going on---Jody was having blood work and worried about cancer's progression and then POOF! All of a sudden she's transformed her basement into a Mahjong parlor and she's teaching large groups of women every week and throwing parties with a few of her friends. 

Yep, she is. All of this is true. 

And perhaps a tad strange.

No, it doesn't replace the blood work, the tests, the waiting, the results and the reality ... but it helps me not dwell on them. It helps me feel a tiny bit normal. A tiny bit.

If I had to sit home and "take it easy" and just ponder cancer I'm pretty sure my head would pop off. Nope that's not for me. Never was and never will be. I am choosing to live. One week it might be sourdough bread, chickens and gardens ... another week it might be teaching Mahjong to lovely ladies. It is who I am. I don't know how to be someone else. Not even with cancer. I am fighting hard to be Jody. Somedays I weep because I feel her slipping away. I feel old. I feel tired. I feel scared. I feel anxious. I feel afraid. I feel angry. 

These aren't feelings I've ever dealt much with. It is new territory for this old girl. When people talk about battling cancer do they know it isn't just the disease one battles? It's also fighting for myself. Fighting to feel normal. Fighting to remain me. 

Oh friends, I'm fighting.

Anyway, I know I owe y'all an answer about that blood work. It came back last week not as we wished. Not as we hoped. Not as we prayed for. My numbers continue to rise and no one seems to really know why. And I don't really know what to say to God about it all. Only I wish He would answer differently. I am certain He hears and cares and loves, but I do wish He might answer differently. 

So tomorrow I am having another scan. A different kind of scan. The doctors want to make sure we aren't missing something. Has the cancer mutated? Is it maybe hiding? We don't know. The blood work is concerning and we need to "overturn every stone" as my oncologist likes to say. So we are turning over another stone with tomorrow's scan. 

Did you ever flip rocks as a little kid? I remember doing that a lot. We used to play in a creek bed near our home and every time I'd flip over a big stone my heart would race a little. What would I find lurking beneath? What snake or awful mysterious water thing might be waiting there ready to pounce. That's kind of how I feel tonight. I'd really like to get out of this creek bed altogether and maybe just go do something else a little less risky.  Something like hopscotch or handball. Or Mahjong. But tomorrow morning we flip over another rock. And I wait for another result. And that is just the way it is these days. 

So I am going to ask you again: Would you pray for me? Would you pray this new and different scan does not show anything new and different to worry about? Would you pray that I can sleep tonight and go into my weekend without the weight of this stone around my neck? Would you pray that Jesus would lighten this load.

He tells us in Matthew 11 ---

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." Matthew 11:28-30

Oh dear ones. I believe that He is the lightener of all loads. My load. Your load. He is The Light. He is, in fact, light. I believe it with everything in me. He shines light even in the very darkest places. Even under rocks waiting to be overturned. He is already there.

He is the Light of the World.

"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." ~ John 1:5

Thank you for hanging in here with me. I am so grateful for every one of your prayers. You continue to bless me. And He hears.

   

Cliff Clinging or Rock Resting? [Joy - Week 9]

 “May the God of hope fill you with ALL JOY + PEACE in believing, 

that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in HOPE.” Romans 15:13

Joy. Peace. Power. Hope. Aren’t these things we all deeply desire? And Paul so nicely ties them together in this Romans' verse. A logical little circle. 

Hope —> Joy —> Peace —> Power —> Hope!

I wrestled mightily with all of these words after first being diagnosed stage four. How could I have any of these things when I was stamped with an incurable disease and an incomprehensible prognosis?

Hope was reserved for stage one or two or three breast cancer, not stage four. Stage four felt like all I could do was hang on to a cliff that was quickly crumbling beneath me. When the doctors explained that we were no longer looking to cure me only to preserve some years for me, I felt utterly without hope. And certainly without joy or peace. 

Three years into this gig and you know I still wrestle a good bit. But God is doing a work in me that is nothing short of a miracle. I don’t know if He will miraculously cure my incurable disease, but He IS curing me of my doubts and disbelief. He is curing me of my natural self which wants to rest in test results or things I can pretend to control. 

He is curing me of the places I put my trust. He is curing me of the earthly desires and distractions which steal my daily attention. He is curing me of the false sense of security I have in myself. Oh, yes, He is curing me. And in His upside down Kingdom, He is using cancer to do so -- Cancer to cure me.

My joy, my peace, my power, my hope … It is never going to come from being declared cancer free. Yes, I want that. Yes, I desire that. Yes, I am asking every day for that. But, these things only—yes ONLY—come from the God of Hope. Not the god of good health or the god of here or the god of have-it-my-own-way. No, only the God of Hope. Capital G.

I would have told you I believed that for most of my life. And I sort of did. I mean I said I did. I thought I did. I tried to live like I did. But in these years of feeling like I’m clinging to a crumbling cliff, I’ve had to come to terms with what happens when the cliff finally falls away. What happens then? None of us can hang on forever. None of us will. Whether it be deemed earlier than average or a long and lusty life, it isn’t forever for any one of us. So what happens then? 

That question is everything. I’m sorry, try as we may, we really can’t ignore it.

I am waiting this week on some important blood results. We are praying and hoping for my numbers to go back down. These aren’t tumor markers which are somewhat unreliable, this is new science and it is pretty certain. I won’t have the results until end of this week or weekend. It is a long period of waiting. It is tiresome. It is trying. It is taking a toll on me and is a reminder of that crummy crumbly cliff to which I cling.

But this morning, very purposefully, Jesus met me and reminded me that it is not a cliff to which I cling, but a rock on which I rest. 

The Rock of my Salvation. The rock which reassures me of my eternity. The rock which provides shelter, security, and surety regardless of results. That Rock. 

“The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.”  ~ Psalm 18:2

“Hear my cry, O God, listen to my prayer! From the end of the earth I call to you when my heart is faint. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.” Psalm 61:1 & 2

Not only can I rest rightly upon it, but I am hidden in it. 

I think of the story from Exodus 33 when Moses met with the Lord before leaving for the promised land. I’m pretty sure Moses would have told us that he felt like the Lord was asking a lot of him: Leave this land. Lead these people. Learn all these lessons. Maybe Moses was unsure, unconvinced, unsettled. Why did it have to be so hard? Why was the Lord asking so much? 


But instead of asking all the “why” questions, Moses asked God to show him His glory. “Now show me your glory.” Maybe he had gotten to that point where he didn't any longer need to know why, but that it was worth it. God’s glory was enough. Because God’s glory is enough.

“Then the Lord said, ‘There is a place near me where you may stand on a rock. When my glory passes by, I will put you in a cleft in the rock and cover you with my hand until I have passed by.”  Exodus 33:21 & 22

I don't know about you, but I can’t help but picture myself in that cleft of His mighty rock. Me in that carefully carved out crevice and covered with the very hand of God. For His glory. Hidden. Safe. Secure. Sure.

And full of hope.

“May the God of hope fill you with ALL JOY + PEACE in believing, that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in HOPE.” Romans 15:13

Where Do You Dwell? [Joy - Week 8]

“THEN my head will be exalted above my enemies who surround me; at His sacred tent I will sacrifice with shouts of JOY; I will sing and make music to the Lord.” ~ Psalm 27:6

*THEN*

The English teacher in me needs to tell you that “then”  positioned at the beginning of  verse 6 is pointing to something earlier in the Psalm 27 passage. We must go back and read verses 4 & 5 to better understand why this word “then” is used —

“One thing I ask from the Lord,
this only do I seek:
that I may DWELL in the house of the Lord
 all the days of my life,
to gaze on the beauty of the Lord
    and to seek Him in His temple. For in the day of trouble.He will keep me safe in His DWELLING; He will hide me in the shelter of His sacred tent and set me high upon a rock.”  Psalm 27:4&5

THEN comes joy. 

But FIRST I must DWELL with the Lord.

Dwell, then joy. 

I can shout for joy at His sacred tent BECAUSE I am safe in His dwelling and hidden in the shelter of His tent. 

How hidden? How safe? HIGH upon a rock hidden and safe. 

That hidden. That safe.

This psalm was used as the call to worship at a revival service I attended last night. I was there to meet Jesus. To ask for His power and healing. I am praying in faith. Sometimes it feels like a big faith, but mostly it is more mustard seed sized. He tells me that is all I need—the tiny faith of a mustard seed. 

I am not sure the size of my faith matters as much as where I choose to DWELL. His word instructs me over and over again to—

To seek Him in His temple 

To seek His face.

To seek His righteousness.

To gaze on His beauty.

To dwell in His house.

“Blessed are those who DWELL in your house; they are ever praising you.”  Psalm 84: 4 

and

“Better is one day in your courts than a thousand elsewhere.” Psalm 84:10

and

“How lovely is your DWELLING place, Lord Almighty.” Psalm 84:1 

Yes, I want to choose joy, but first I must ask myself —Where do I dwell? 

Where do I spend my time, my thoughts, my energy, my attention, my focus, my money, my everything. 

Where do I dwell each day?

The joy will come. But first I must decide to dwell with the Lord. To stay with Him. To accept His shelter, His shadow, the safe-haven of His holiness.

“Whoever DWELLS in the shelter of the Most High, will REST in the shadow of the Almighty.” Psalm 91

This verse has become a bit of a bulwark or hallmark in my life lately. Securely stamped. It is one of the verses I have on repeat in my head when I wake in the middle of the night or when I’m feeling anxious or afraid in the middle of the day. I say it out loud:

JODY who DWELLS in the shelter of the Most High 

will REST in the shadow of the Almighty.

She who dwells will rest. 

And she who rests will also [then] find joy. 

DWELL- REST- JOY. 

It is a winning combination. 

More importantly, it is a life-giving combination.

Hebrews says it a little differently —

“Fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the JOY set before Him He endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” Hebrews 12:2

Eyes on Jesus! He is the ultimate example of JOY in the hardest of circumstances. See, if my eyes are on Him then they just can’t be quite so focused on me or on my cancer or on any of my many issues.

Fixing my eyes on Jody causes me to fret.

Fixing my eyes on Jesus encourages me toward faith.

Dwelling on me, I get depressed in my brokenness.

Dwelling on Him, I get to gaze at His beauty.

Remember the old song …

“Turn your eyes upon Jesus

Look full in His wonderful face

And the things of this earth

Will grow strangely dim

In the light of His glory and grace.”

Can you hear the tune? Sing it today. Whistle it. Write it out on a piece of paper and put it up on your refrigerator door.

Remind yourself where you dwell matters. 

Turn your eyes to Him. 

Tune our hearts to sing His praise.

DWELL-REST-JOY!

“At His sacred tent, I will sacrifice with shouts of joy.” Psalm 27:6

If you are up for it, I’d love to assign a little extra homework. Can I  encourage you this week to spend time in three Psalms where I believe the Lord is encouraging us to DWELL more deeply with Him? Psalm 27, Psalm 91 and Psalm 84. 

Maybe use these as part of your quiet time and see for yourself all of the ways in which they beautifully connect and come together.

One last thing I want to share  — This week God gave me the sweetest little gift around the word “dwell.” In some research I was doing about Bella’s Chinese name Zhang Xue Zhu, I learned that the “Zhu” part actually has several meanings. We had always thought it meant bamboo, but another meaning is “dwell.” I loved learning that this week almost 15 years after she has been home!