Our Wedding Rehearsal

This was us, 36 years ago tonight, on the eve of our wedding —our wedding rehearsal. Way back then, I didn’t really understand that a person could rehearse for a wedding, but not really for a marriage. There is no rehearsal for real life. It just happens. We get one shot. That’s it. Sure there can be preparation — and there should be! — but, I’ve learned in these thirty some years there’s no true rehearsal. There’s only real life.

Back then as a college senior and a woman barely into my twenties I would never have been able to imagine what three decades and six years later might look like. I would have probably laughed if someone had told me what 2026 would bring for the (almost) new Mrs. McNatt. Me, a girl with stars in her eyes and a sparkly beat in her heart. Rick and I, with our dreams and our hopes and our bright future together. No, on that August wedding eve in 1990, life was nothing but a fairytale. An absolutely beautiful fairytale. 

And for so many years it continued to be so. I can’t complain. What a beautiful life we built together. God richly blessed us with five children and 35 wonderful years, side by side. Not perfect, by any means, but a gift. We found out early on the fairytale actually took a whole lot of work. But work, we did. We worked together because we wanted to honor each other and our vows before God. We worked together, mostly, because we loved each other deeply and our marriage and family was worth every bit of the hard work. Like I said, a gift.

But that wedding rehearsal on August 24th, 1990 only showed us how to walk down the aisle and where to stand once in front of our minister. It didn’t give us one clue how to walk through the hard days or where to stand in the devastation life can bring. No, for those things it wasn’t our fairytale which would see us through, but our faith in God. 

And that still holds true today on this night before my wedding anniversary with my bridegroom now gone. It still holds true in these days after taking our youngest to college this past weekend without him by my side. It still holds true as I am forced to walk the road of cancer now as a widow. And it still holds true as my house is packed up and I prepare to move from it next week. 

The fairytale has fallen apart. The dream is being dismantled before my very eyes. The pretty white wedding dress is crushed in a cardboard box down in my dusty basement right now as I type these words out tonight. I found the box this week while packing. Sitting on a shelf right next to our wedding china which we haven’t used in many years. Fairytales can be lovely, but they won’t see us through the fires of life. They simply cannot. 

But I am writing tonight to tell you that 36 years after saying “I do” at the altar before God, I cling tighter to my Lord and Savior now more than ever. Even now. Even after losing my health, my husband, and (soon) my home. Even after the fairytale has been burned up in the fire of sorrow and so much loss, I still choose to say “I do” to Jesus. He is, and always will be, the Lover of my soul. 

I don’t know why my life has taken the turn it has. I woke this morning with a random eye infection. I was like, “Seriously, God, an eye infection in the middle of this massive move?” I am literally falling apart lately. And, I suppose, by all accounts, that would be understandable and expected. But, even in all of this, somehow I hear the voice of my Savior spurring me on. Somehow I feel His presence pulling me close. Somehow He comes and quiets my soul in the darkest nights and the deepest valleys. I can’t even really understand it all, but somehow I know I can trust it. I can trust Him.

No, this isn’t a fairytale, but it is very much a faith tale. And I don’t mean my faith, but God’s faithfulness to me. I can’t take even a smidgen of credit. My faith has been, at best, pretty wobbly this year, but His faithfulness remains sure and steady and so clearly seen. And so tonight, on this eve of my first wedding anniversary without Rick, I made the decision to honor God by sharing ---with anyone who might take a minute to read these words -- the gift of His faithfulness. No matter what you're going through. No matter how hard the road or how hot the fire, you can trust the Lord to see you through. He never promised it would be easy. He certainly never promised it would always be a fairytale.

 

"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace.

In this world you will have trouble. But take heart!

I have overcome the world." ~ John 16:33

Walking down the wedding to aisle to Rick was one of the best decisions of my life. But walking each day with Jesus is life.

God's Got Her

16 years ago, today, Rick and I met our darling Bella Grace in China. She walked into the room greeting us in her tiny lime green shorts, her ruffled yellow shirt and a snazzy pair of Garfield sandals which somehow squeaked. 

And we were smitten. Head over heels for this little pixie of a girl who we were lucky enough to get to call daughter. Happy Gotcha Day, Bella! We celebrate, Bella today, but Gotcha Day has always been a gift to us. I love that I’ve had the gift of “getting” you every single day since; every day waking up knowing you are my daughter and I get to be your mama. It is a joy and a treasure and this day will forever be one of the very best days of my life. 

But this year, I would like to dedicate Bella’s Gotcha Day to the woman who actually made sure we "got her." It was my dear friend, Beverly, who put Bella’s file into our hands 17 years ago, saying, “I have a baby for you! Just look at this little face! Jody, just look at her little rosebud mouth.” She not only put Bella's file into our hands, but she continued to hold our hands tightly through the grueling, year-long, process of decisions and dossiers. It was a time of great

Bev playing with Bella at her baptism lunch

vulnerability and even some fear. We were often overwhelmed, but Bev kept cheering us on. Reminding us of God’s goodness and His provision. Reminding us of this little girl waiting for us on the other side of the world. She pushed us to be brave, to be bold. She almost didn't give us a chance to be anything less than.

Bev waiting for us at the airport
when we brought Bella home.

I honestly don’t know how we would have done this big thing without Bev. She was really good at turning all the “what-ifs” into “imagine-ifs?” Somehow she was able to clap for us and yet hold our hands at the very same time. But that was Bev. She had her own special superpower. She could make you think deeply and laugh uproariously almost all at once. She kept us all on our toes. She knew the view was better when we were willing to stretch ourselves and look upward.

This week of Bella's Gotcha Day, Beverly had her own heavenly Gotcha Day. Earlier this week Beverly went home to be with Jesus. 

He's got her now.

After fighting breast cancer for many years, she is now free from her earthly pain. Her gain is the presence of Christ. But ours sure feels like a great, searing loss. So many grieve Bev. She touched an unparalleled amount of lives in her time here. She was always speaking deeply into others—offering wisdom, offering her silly wise-cracks, offering depth and incredible devotion. I know few people who are so all in when they speak directly to you. She had a true gift. 

I don’t really make it a habit to write much about my friends, but I have written about Beverly several times in this blog. Seriously, just go to the search bar at the top and type in her name. You will find several anecdotes about this funny, faithful friend. Her impact has been massive. God has inextricably woven her into Bella’s story, but also into mine.

A few months after bringing Bella home from China, Bev was diagnosed with breast cancer. On the day she got home from the hospital after surgery I was at her house planting flowers when my phone rang. It was my doctor confirming that my biopsy was positive. I, too, now had breast cancer. This didn't make sense. Both of us? I remember hanging up with the doctor and climbing the stairs to Beverly’s bedroom where she was resting. I crawled into her lap and we wept together. How could both of us be diagnosed with cancer a month a part. It felt crazy. It was crazy.

And then 11 years later, unbelievably, it got even crazier. In 2022, Bev and I were again both diagnosed a month apart with stage 4 breast cancer. Our original breast cancer had done the unthinkable and metastasized. Again, we wept and we wondered how could this be? How could God allow it again in both of our lives?

In these past four years we acknowledged several times that though it is in some ways a gift to have a friend to walk this hard road with, it is also pretty awful to have to walk this hard road with a friend. 

But walk together we did. Best we could.

 And just like with Bella’s adoption process, Bev continued to hold my hand and still clap for us all at once.  

We shared the same oncologist and even on occasion would end up there at the same time for an infusion or an appointment. What a strange place to hang out with a friend. Like we were getting a coffee together, not cancer meds dripping through an IV. But we went with it. We even kind of joked about it. What choice did we have? 

We worked hard to never compare our journeys, but we’d commiserate and we’d even keep each other laughing a little. Where no one else was allowed to joke about our cancer, we could. I guess that's kind of like you can talk about your own mama, but no one else can talk about your mama, right? 

Though we would often remind each other of God's truth, we’d also discuss the absurdity and the outrageous twists and turns of our diagnoses. We talked many times about how we should really go to one of those places where we could smash things.  Is it called a Rage Room? Yes, we dreamed of going, but we never did it as I guess that involved a little more energy than either of us could muster up, but I do think we felt better when we imagined ourselves doing it. Aside from smashing things, we mostly wondered what in the world God was doing in our stories. We’d share our fears and our sorrows and our losses. Cancer takes so much. It has taken so much. But we were also able to offer intimate encouragement to one another. Cancer is a most lonely road. Even when surrounded by so many who want to help, very few can really understand what this death sentence does to a person. How it changes them; how it slays them. But Beverly understood. She knew how I felt. I knew how she felt. Even in our ugly circumstances, there was beauty to be found in our mutual empathy.

And now she’s gone and, selfishly, I'm more than a little afraid to do this cancer thing without her. I have peace knowing her body is new and free from the ravages of disease, but I am sad for those left behind. Mostly I am heartbroken for her husband and children and her family. They are all so precious. She was their center. They are bright lights and a true legacy to Bev. As much as she loved other people everywhere, the true apple of her eye was her family. Her oldest daughter, Neilly, shared news of Bev's death opening with, "My perfect mom went to be with Jesus this week."  So heartbreaking, but so beautiful. A testament to who Bev truly was. 

I'm also sad for her closest friends. She was a true sister to a few special ladies and a great friend and mentor to countless, countless women. And, yes, I am sad for me and my own little slice of this lovely, loving, long suffering woman.

I have learned a good deal about my mortality in this past year. My own prognosis, Rick’s death and now Bev. It all weighs so heavy. But it certainly has grabbed hold of my attention. Cancer or cancer free, we only have so much time on this earth. What are we doing with these days, with this time, with this life? What really matters most? And do we think about that enough? We should think about that. 

Beverly Ficken knew the answer to those questions and she lived life intentionally, authentically and beautifully. She was brave and she was bold. And she modeled and encouraged that in a multitude of others. She got people up on their toes. She stretched those she loved. She made people be their best selves and she rarely settled for anything less. 

A couple of years into our stage four diagnosis, Beverly and I decided to memorize Psalm 121 together. When we’d be in a particularly bad place with our cancer or anxiety from cancer we’d text each other a line from Psalm 121. She'd send one line and I'd reply with the next. Or vice versa. There is power in the Holy Word of God. We knew that. I will miss that. 

I lift up my eyes to the mountains --

where does my help come from?

My help comes from the Lord,

the Maker of heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot slip—
    he who watches over you will not slumber;
4 indeed, he who watches over Israel
    will neither slumber nor sleep.

5 The Lord watches over you—
    the Lord is your shade at your right hand;
6 the sun will not harm you by day,
    nor the moon by night.

7 The Lord will keep you from all harm—
    he will watch over your life;
8 the Lord will watch over your coming and going
    both now and forevermore.  ~ Psalm 121

This week Beverly had her Gotcha Day in heaven. Jesus has her now. He actually always had her, but now she’s resting fully and freely in the arms of her Heavenly Father. Bev helped us bring Bella home and that was a beautiful, glorious, unbelievable gift. But even that homecoming doesn’t compare to our final home in heaven with Jesus. All of these good things and hard things and beautiful journeys and brutal journeys here on earth only continue to point us to our true home. Heaven. Heaven. Heaven.

Beverly would want you to know that above all else. Heaven is our true home. 

Dearest Bev, though I'm heartbroken to lose you, precious friend, I am so glad to know with confidence that our Savior's now "got you." 

And, I also have full confidence you will be keeping everyone in heaven up on their toes too! Of course you will. 

Until I see you again. 

He Carried Things

He carried things. Beach toys and swimming tubes. Babies and boogie boards. He always had something or someone in his arms. Today on this first Father's Day without our father and husband we've come to the ocean. His favorite place in all the world. The same beach we brought our children to year after year.

The beach where Rick taught them to body surf and jump high in the waves. The beach where they learned to love the sand and the surf as did their dad.

The beach where he carried them, cradled them, played with them and sun-screened them up from tip to toe.

He was always the first out to the beach and the last to come in. He'd bring enough chairs, towels, snacks and drinks to care for an army of children. He loved to set it all up and watch his family enjoy the fruits of his vacation labor. He never complained.

So many memories crash over me like the relentless waves I am watching this late afternoon. The ebb and flow of this world and our lives in it.

Even in the midst of this most wrong thing, being together here today somehow feels right. I watch my children and grandchildren at the waters edge and I continue to pray for softness to surround them. For the edges of this pain to soften and lessen a little. For the grit of grief to refine us smooth like the shells my granddaughter places in my hand.

We've been tossed in the tempest of our great loss, but we are standing. We are upright in these unknown and unwanted waters and we will continue on. Together. Holding each other tightly and keeping our eyes on that line of horizon which reminds us of how very big is our God. Even in this sharpest of pain God cannot and will not be diminished. He loves us and he longs for us to see life again.

We see Rick everywhere and we miss him terribly today on this day we would wish to celebrate him. But we look out and up to our Heavenly Father who continues to carry us. And always will.

"I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you." ~ Isaiah 46:4

Our House

We fell in love with this property five years ago. The front porch, the five acres, the thought of adding chickens and gardens and grandchildren—it was a dream come true. Travel down the long driveway and you find yourself nestled away in a sort of sanctuary. The deer, the birds, the tall trees—all of it spoke to me. All of it ministered to my soul. All of it helped quiet the angst when soon after landing here I was diagnosed stage four. I knew it was a place in which, even if I could never fully recover from cancer, I could retreat. 

And retreat I did. When fear or anxiety became too much I would wander outdoors. I’d go into the garden or out to the woods. I’d dig or plant or weed or chop or burn. Somehow it helped. Maybe it’s not every woman’s wiring, but it’s definitely mine. And I probably told my husband about 10,000 times how grateful I was that we had found our way here. How—if we had known this kind of diagnosis was coming, we’d never have sold our last home and bought this big property and house. But because we didn’t know what was ahead—we did. We bought the farm. We bought more than would some day be manageable.

I don’t think we were being greedy. We certainly weren’t trying to keep up with the Joneses. The Joneses probably thought us a tad weird or crazy. No, that was never our intent. We loved the charm and the character and the calm. It immediately felt like home. It felt like ours. And oh how we enjoyed these years of making it our own.

We didn’t know that I’d soon be less mobile and constantly exhausted from medications. We didn’t know I’d be challenged getting around the yard or up and down the stairs. We didn’t know what that stress might do to us. I didn’t know what my husband was carrying and trying to keep from me out of his desire to protect and provide. I just kept telling him how thankful I was to have this and how it was helping me deal with my diagnosis. I kept thanking him for making it possible. I kept praising God for His provision. For this paradise. For this sanctuary. For this incredibly special haven in the midst of cancer hell.

And now Rick is gone. And the house must sell. And, though not comparable, both feel completely impossible. One day life is one thing and in an instant it is blown up and blown away and becomes something we could never have imagined. Not for one minute. So much loss. It is hard to not lose my way in it. Hard to not lose myself altogether. Hard to be anything but lost.

We’ve started showing the house to prospective buyers. This is not my first rodeo, so I’m pretty good getting all the things done for a house showing. Especially as I have kids and friends who swoop in and help me in the most incredible ways. They are quick to come and clean and sweep and do. 

But each time, right before the realtors and the buyers arrive, I always have a little time in the house alone. The kids and friends leave. The house empties and I walk the rooms making sure everything is “just so.” 

And, the truth is, it just isn’t. It is not “just so.” In fact, it never will be “just so” again. Not for me. Not for my family.

I walk from room to room and I can see the happy family within the walls. I can hear all the jokes and all the joy. The holidays and the normal days and the crazy, funny, fierce-loving, loud family days. 

I walk around making certain every little thing is perfectly in place. And every single thing is in place and clean and pristine and folded and fluffed. But nothing is okay. Our loving husband and father is gone. His office, empty. His closet, too clean. His tools, too tidy. His books and his bourbon and his fishing gear all organized and untouched. It is then that I grieve fiercely. I wander through these rooms and I remember how much love filled each one. I remember it all and I cannot hardly bear to be present in this emptiness and non-existence of our family. I cannot bear to see it all so perfect. So cleaned up and cleared out. Like a lovely magazine layout without any life. Like a beautiful house without anyone home. 

This is when the tears stream down my cheeks and the sobs rack my body. When it is empty and waiting for some new family to arrive and assess its value. Someone else with big dreams and big family desires and big life ahead to live.

I know these rooms will be filled again with laughter and love. I know the pitter-patter of small feet and the squeals of Christmas morning magic will happen here again. Some day for someone new this home will come back to life. I just cannot believe our life in this beloved home with our beloved Rick is over. So abruptly. So unexpectedly. So unbelievably. Over.

It’s a house—a material, earthly, temporal thing. It means nothing in the long run. But it meant much in the short. I’ve always been a house kind of girl. I’ve probably cared too much about feathering my nest. It’s been a joy and a passion. Maybe a little bit of an idol. I’ve had to reel myself in a time or twenty. God wired me for beauty and aesthetics. He designed me to love nature and His creation and to bring the outside in. This home allowed me to do that. Doors always wide open, cut flowers on the countertops, empty bird nests in glass boxes and porches with flower pots or ferns in every corner. There was a time when my kids finally declared, “no more birds or botanical prints, mom!” I had more than met my quota. The temporal should never be a temple, but, if careful, these passions can still point us to Him, our Potter, Designer and Creator. 

Home is where we raised our children. Home is where we rooted and built our family “Live your lives rooted and built up in Him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.” Colossains 2: 6-7  That was, and still is, my greatest calling as a mother and our home (our many homes) was the setting and stage of this holy thing. It cradled my calling. How can it not feel like shattered pieces in my hand as I consider selling now to a stranger, to someone who doesn’t know us. Doesn’t know the family who ate meals and played games and watched movies and told stories here.  

This home has held great and grievous sorrow in recent months. But that was a moment in terrible time. That is not who it is. It is a home wrapped in life and laughter. A home full of light and joy. A home which gathers people and feeds souls. Just a year ago a friend and I did a little soul retreat here for a group of women. I opened up my home and welcomed women to spend the day in solitude communing with Christ. Finding quiet corners in the house or yard they used their time journaling, praying and worshipping the Lord. I remember what great pleasure it brought me seeing our home used in such a way. A home can be a holy place.

“Even the sparrow has found a home and swallow a place near your altar.”                                                  ~Psalm 84:3  

It’s been my blog title and hallmark verse since bringing Bella home many years ago. I have always known that my nest~home must be positioned near God’s altar. There was no other choice. Yes, there would be safety, but there would also be sacrifice. There would be surrender. No matter my fingerprints upon it, it would never fully belong to me. It was always His. I, only the caretaker of what it was He so graciously entrusted. I tried to remind myself of that often. To give Him the glory and praise Him for the good and to trust Him and His plan.

This was to be the year our nest would  finally and officially empty. The last child heading off to college. It is inconceivable, and some days quite unbearable, that in the midst of this already tumultuous motherhood season I am also to grieve the loss of my husband. If I’m honest, this dual convergence of emptying feels cruel. 

I titled this post "Our House." And I often catch myself referring to it as ours, when in essence, it is now my house. I'm not sure I will ever get used to moving from our to my in anything. There are so many things to get used to. So many changes.

I will sell this home--my home--and I will rebuild my nest for a new purpose. I have no idea what or where at this point. It’s a bit tricky as a woman with my prognosis and path. I am begging God to do a miracle. To make things new again. To bring beauty from these ashes. I am asking Him to sustain my health and my years and allow me to see His plan and His hand even in this fire. I am begging Him to show me.

“Show me the way I should go, for to you I entrust my l ife. Rescue me from my enemies, Lord, for I hide myself in you. Teach me to do your will, for you are my God; may your good Spirit lead me on level ground.” Psalm 143:8-10

Level ground? It has felt more like unlevel and disheveled these past months. It still feels so. Will it ever not? I can’t answer that. I can only explain that grief continues its course. It is not lined up or linear, it is somedays closer to lunacy. 

But even now, even in this, God is still here. He comes and He quiets. He binds up and He mends. He reminds me of His love for me. He lifts my head. He opens my eyes to the beauty of life. Most days He continues to push me outside to the garden or woods to keep digging, planting, weeding, chopping and burning. My tears mix with the soil while my soul meets with my God. 

He whispers, “Jody, this is not your final home, but only a mere foretaste of what is to come when I call you to your Heavenly Home with me.” Strangely, on March 11th, the day Rick died, that was my devotional. I shared it that morning with our family via text. I’ve attached it below and encourage you to read it. Read also the passage from 2 Corinthians 4. “But we have this treasure in jars of clay …” Yes, jars of clay.

No, we are not meant for this world. We have a place in it for now. A purpose. A mission. Some marching orders. We have a task to tend and a calling to care. But even the most lovely of dwelling places does not compare to what awaits us when we arrive home to Him. Rick is now there. He is home. 

For now, I will continue to nurture and be creative in this life here on earth. I will hold dirt in my hands and I will turn my face to the sun and I will trust the Gardener of my soul as He continues to do His work in me. Digging, planting, weeding, chopping, and burning.

If These Walls Could Speak

~ Amy Grant, 1988

If these old walls could speak
Of things that they remembered well
Stories and faces dearly held
A couple in love
Livin' week to week
Rooms full of laughter
If these walls could speak

If these old halls
If hallowed halls could talk
These would have a tale to tell
Of sun goin' down and dinner bell
And children playing at hide and seek
From floor to rafter
If these halls could speak

They would tell you that I'm sorry
For bein' cold and blind and weak
They would tell you that it's only
That I have a stubborn streak
If these walls could speak

If these old fashioned window panes were eyes
I guess they would have seen it all
Each little tear and sigh and footfall
And every dream that we came to seek
Or followed after

If these walls could speak.

Birdy, Birdy, Birdy

 

Almost every morning, before the sun's rise, I wake to the sound of a cardinal singing from the porch outside my bedroom. "Birdy, Birdy, Birdy." It is almost always the first bird song of my morning. 

"Birdy"  is the name my grandchildren call me.

For the past few months since my husband's death this birdsong has been my morning call to life. 

"Get up, Birdy. Get up and get out of bed. You can do this. You must."

Mornings have been hard. So are evenings. Heck, every time of day is hard. 

But I've always deeply loved my mornings. I've always woken with purpose and drive and fresh desire for the day ahead. Since Rick's passing it has been the strangest thing--perhaps for the first time in my life--to dread the morning. I don't stay in bed all day, but sometimes I want to. I want to pull the covers over my head and pretend this is not my life. This is not the road marked out for me. This unthinkable thing has not happened to me, to my children, to our life as we knew and loved it.

How will I ever fly again? How will I ever wake again ready to embrace my day fully? How will I even begin to face my future without my husband by my side?

Even through this crazy cancer battle I've continued to chase life and dreams and the new day. But now my bed beckons. My body craves numb and nothingness. Like this second picture, I desire only the doors closed, the drapes drawn and the mindless drum of rain on my rooftop. 

Oh, but for that bright red bird singing his loud song outside my porch door every morning. "Birdy, Birdy, Birdy." He (or she) sings my name. He tells me it's time to try. Time to get up again. Time to keep going. I have children and grandchildren who need their Birdy. There is more life ahead to be lived.  

God has plans. He has a purpose. He has promised to restore peace. He knows my pain and He calls me by name. 

Somewhere in our almost 40 years together Rick started calling me J-Bird. Birds were always my thing, but as middle age set in he caught some of the fever. We talked about birds a lot in these past years. He faithfully refilled the feeder outside our kitchen window almost weekly. Without me even asking. It was his thing. I filled it last week for the first time and felt the pieces of my shattered heart so similar to the tiny seeds pouring into the large tube. Somewhat contained in the plexiglass, but fragile and making a mess everywhere. 

God's Word tells us to look at the birds. 

Maybe that means to listen as well. 

"Birdy, Birdy, Birdy.”

“Jody, Jody, Jody.”

Get up and keep going. 

A new day is coming. 

“Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barn, yet your Heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?” ~ Matthew 6:26-27

"Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning." ~ Psalm 30:5

I love this scripture reminding us how God sings over us. I especially love it in the King James Version.

"The Lord thy God in the midst of thee is mighty; He will save, He will rejoice over thee with joy; He will rest in His love, He will joy over thee with singing."~ Zephaniah 3:17

"He will joy over thee with singing." 

I hear their song all day long, all over our yard. 

Sitting on my porch yesterday enjoying the rain and 

the cardinal song,  "Birdy, Birdy, Birdy." 

Note: 

And, yes, I know the stories about cardinals and their connection to loved ones in Heaven. I've read the Frannie Flagg, A Redbird at Christmas as well as others. I'm not sure if this is how it works, but who knows, maybe! What I do know is that God tells us to look at the birds of the air. And so I do. I hope you do as well.