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. 

Healthcare or We Don't Care?

Well, at least the insurance company has deemed me healthy. That’s got to count for something, right? I mean it’s only cancer. We can cross our fingers and hope for the best because someone in a room somewhere decided my PET scan this week is “medically unnecessary.” 

I’m so glad to know it. Perhaps that means my (incurable) stage four breast cancer is suddenly cured? Good thing the person in that room somewhere has decided this for me. I just wish my oncologist would get on board with their way of thinking. She seems to think it is very necessary that I have a PET scan this week. Especially as my last one (last fall) showed some progression of cancer.

I received the denial letter almost 2 weeks ago and have been fighting every day since trying to get someone to help me navigate the mess. It has gone through several appeals. I keep getting transferred to different “we care” type groups. Seriously, they all have the word “care” in their names. These are special escalation teams to help me advocate and navigate. I want to vomit at all the “care” names. Rick used to do all of this for me. Now I’m doing it alone. I explained that fact to a nice lady named Edith on the phone yesterday morning. I explained how my husband died this spring and I have stage four cancer and must figure this all out and fight for my care alone. He isn’t here to make the call. He isn’t here to pull the strings he was able to pull working for this miserable healthcare company for most of his career.

Why must a person battle cancer and also be required to battle her insurance company? That isn’t right. That isn’t okay. That isn’t health care, that is, heck, we don’t care. That is we don’t give a damn about your body, only our bottom line. Why must I need to prove to someone in a room somewhere that I do, indeed, need a PET scan. Why must a stage four patient even have a burden of proof? Shouldn't that disastrous diagnosis count for something? 

Honestly, I’m so over it. 

A year ago, I had another scan denied and Rick made a call to someone he knew and at the eleventh hour it was approved. Just hours before the scan I received a call from a Michelle or Melanie or some nice lady with an M name, who said in a most chipper and way too enthusiastic voice, “Mrs. McNatt, I have wonderful news! Your scan has just been approved! Isn’t that great news?” 

Major phone pause. 

I was so taken aback. I almost couldn’t speak at all. And then the rage came bubbling up inside of me and spewing out across the phone line. 

“I’m sorry, Michelle (or Melanie) that is actually NOT great news. It’s great news for me because I am a privileged woman with a husband who can make a direct phone call on her behalf to the right important individual. But that is not great news for the regular woman who is forced to battle her disease and simultaneously battle her disappointing insurance company. I am in several metastatic breast cancer groups and I read all the time about how hard it is to get things approved and how discouraged these poor women are trying to fight for their lives while fighting for their healthcare. And that is not okay. THAT IS NOT GREAT NEWS. That is despicable. That is unconscionable. That is not healthcare, that is hell care.”

She began to cry. I began to cry. 

I guess I had surprised Michelle (or Melanie) with my outburst, but I had had enough. I told her it hadn’t been my intention to shoot the messenger, but I hoped my comments were recorded and asked her to please share with the people in charge of making these disastrous decisions about desperate people’s lives. 

We hung up and I remember, even in my anger, being so grateful that my husband was able to go to bat for me, pull strings and get things pushed through with our insurance. I was lucky. It shouldn't come down to luck.  It shouldn’t be that way. I shouldn’t get special attention, but I was grateful nonetheless.

That was a year ago. 

Now I know a whole lot better what the regular woman battling cancer faces on the healthcare front. A year ago I didn’t know I was advocating for what would become my life. My new normal. But here we are. 

And can I just say, it’s not like I want a scan. It’s not like it’s some kind of sexy elective surgery or a new pair of shoes. It’s a scan which requires me to drink something radioactive, sit in a dark room for an hour and then place my body perfectly still in a machine. “Perfectly still” is harder than you think these days. Everything inside me is a whirl and a quiet, cold, sterile machine is not exactly comforting. But that’s the easy part. 

Then comes the truly hard stuff — the waiting for results. I am often nauseous the entire time I wait to hear what the scan shows. I wish I could tell you that I’m at peace, but I’m not. I am anxious and afraid and so sick of yet another result I can hardly see straight. And this time, I get to do that alone for the first time since Rick’s death. Sure I have people with whom I can share my news. People who “are waiting with me.” People who are asking and want to know. But not my husband. Not Rick by my side to open the test result in MyChart and read it and feel the vulnerable raw of cruel cancer. It will just be another one of the many things I must do alone.

Oh, please hear me. I am not trying to write a sob story or have a pity party. I just want people to know this is the state of things. Please don’t make it political. It doesn’t much matter who is in the White House, this is just a broken, broken system. I know so many people have these same stories. Mine feels pretty rough right now, but I do realize, I’m not special, others are fighting similar battles. I’m so sorry if that is your experience as well. And if you haven’t had to do this kind of fighting, then please just be aware and be grateful.

Finally, I am going to ask you for your prayers. I almost didn’t share this because rarely do I throw something out that doesn’t have some kind of redeeming value. I don’t like to complain or compare my story to others. But I do want people to know what goes on and I do want to intentionally ask for you to cover it in prayer.

All the time people like to say things like, “God will never give us more than we can handle.” That person is wrong. That promise is not found anywhere in the Bible. In fact, it is a complete misnomer. Hard things are given every single day all over the world. Even if that’s not your story, you’d best believe it. What God does promise is His presence in it. He will be IN whatever it is we are faced with. He will be right WITH us no matter how hard or how horrible. 

“When you pass through the waters,

I will be with you;

and when you pass through the rivers,

they will not sweep over you.

When you walk through the fire,

you will not be burned;

the flames will not set you ablaze.” 

~ Isaiah 43:2

Do you see that wording? It’s not IF, it’s WHEN. You will. I will. We will. Maybe your story isn’t quite as dramatic as mine at the moment. Maybe. But we’ve all got our hard stuff. We do. If not now, then maybe someday. 

WHO you lean on in the midst of it makes all the difference. I’m not sure my healthcare company really cares all that much, but I know my Holy God cares very much. And as I type out these final sentences about this absurd PET scan debacle, I know that is why I was prompted to sit down at my laptop this afternoon and write — to remind myself that God cares and carries. He is with me even when I fight companies and cancer and continued loneliness. He is here and He cares. Not because the word “care” is in His name, but because it is in His person. 

 

A Thing With Feathers

We've had the pleasure of hosting a lovely little wren nest on our front porch these past few weeks of May. Mama wren decided to nestle her nursery into a mossy planter near our front door. Quite brave of her considering how perfectly eye level it was with my granddaughter, Mimi Grace. But five speckled eggs arrived in late April, and soon after, baby birds. It has been such a delight to monitor the wren activity each morning or evening while we sit rocking or swinging out on the porch.

Though the wren parents have tolerated our presence pretty well, they've made it abundantly clear we are in their space and being watched ever so closely. There was to be no monkey business or meddling with their dear little nest. 

And, like good bird watchers, we've done well abiding by their wren wishes. Even little Mimi. Even Birdy (me!) who loves to check on them--maybe a little too often.  

But this morning our five baby wrens fledged. 

I was reading out on the porch swing most of the morning and both mama and papa wren did their bird best to let me know this was the big day. There was quite a song and dance taking place up on the porch--A cacophony of bird songs and extra loud chirping. So loud and so often I could hardly concentrate on what I read. So I kept one eye on my book and, of course, the other on the nest.

As the drama continued to mount, I knew it was time to turn my phone to video and be ready to capture their first unsteady steps out of the nest. And that's exactly what I did. One little head after another began to emerge from the mossy weave of their May abode—magnificent! Magical! How they all had fit so deeply inside that tiny nest, I’m not really sure, but out they came. Baby bird, by baby bird. Wide-eyed and full of wonder for this unknown world beyond. 

With mama close by and a bit anxious, I backed further away and then headed inside for another cup of coffee. I wanted to give them a little space. Gone less than 10 minutes, but when I returned to the porch, I wasn't really all that surprised to find our wren nest empty--the baby wrens had fully fledged.

Every single one of them gone. 

Gone from the nest.

Gone from the planter.

Gone from the porch.

I had turned my back for just a few minutes of coffee making and those babies had taken flight. Because isn’t that exactly how it happens? We turn away for just a minute or two and they are all of a sudden graduating from something and all grown up and going on to other things. I have watched this time after time in my own home. I know this gig pretty well.  

I could hear them in the bushes below so I followed for a bit and captured a little more footage of these five wonderful wrens heading off in their little half-flying, half-hopping way for a thicket down by the creek. Eventually they all got there and when the last one made it safely inside, the mama wren sat high on a tree above and she sang and she sang and she sang.

She sang her heart out. 

And my own heart burst wide open listening to her song of victorious mothering. I would have sung with her if I only could. But alas, I absolutely cannot. So instead I just stood there down near that thicket at the creek bed and celebrated with her. Well done, mama bird, well done. You've earned the singing of this song.

Saturday, our fifth and final baby bird will fledge when she walks across the stage and receives her high school diploma. And though I promise not to break out in bird song, my heart will surely burst wide with celebration. How gracious is our God to give me this little wren moment this very week of her graduation. The last one from the nest. Our Bella. 

I understand that mama wren’s song. There is victory. There is celebration. There is accomplishment. There is joy and there are tears. There's also exhaustion and maybe a sense of relief. It's hard to launch our babies from the safe nest of our creation to the insecure world we can't control. But we do it. We did it. 

I wish Rick were here. I wish he could be like that papa wren celebrating right alongside me. Cheering and chirping loudly and knowing we did it. We did it together. We did it with God's grace. We raised five children for the past thirty years side by side. We stumbled and struggled often. We messed up and made mistakes every day. But we helped each other along and we kept going and we kept parenting and we kept on persevering. Because that’s what parenting takes every single day. And it is so much better with a partner. We were a team. A good team.

When Bella walks across that stage this Saturday and proudly accepts her diploma I will rejoice greatly, but I will also grieve deeply. I should be sharing this victory song with her dad. I should be. I want to be. Oh, how desperately I want him to be by my side Saturday morning for this moment. She did it. We did it. Rick and me. We raised and launched five children. This is not a small thing. He should be here for our swan song or our wren song or our whatever song. He should be here.

How can life have taken this turn as our nest finally empties after all of these decades of parenting children in our home? How can my nest empty of children and my spouse in the very same season. It is cruel. 

I want to celebrate, but I don't want to sing alone. Surely this was never the plan for my nest.

I know I am not alone. Goodness, no, there are so many who walk willingly and lovingly alongside me. But just two months into this new role as widow and loneliness is already a thing. Of course it is. How can it not be with my partner in parenting and all things in life suddenly, inexplicably, gone. Part of me can’t help but be missing too. 

Yes, loneliness is a very real thing. 

But so is hope. 

And that is how I continue to sing (softy, I promise). I have hope. Great hope even in the midst of this great storm. Even in this gale of grief, there continues to be hope. 

I typically end my posts with scripture. And there are so many appropriate and beautiful passages about how we are to look at the birds and see our Heavenly Father’s provision. You know them. And they are true. But today I am going to end this writing with one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems, “Hope is the thing with feathers.” It is fitting as Emily writes of a bird continuing to sing her song even in the gale and  storm of grief. 

Hope is the thing with feathers (254)

That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

                    ~Emily Dickinson

Below you will find the videos of our sweet Carolina Wren's: Their fledging from the nest, heading to the thicket and finally one capturing mama bird's song up on my porch. 

I hope you enjoy!

. 

 

I Don't Know What To Do

If you know me at all you know I am a “to do” kind of girl. There’s almost always a list on a continual loop in my head.  Always a note open on my phone with items requiring my time and attention. Each day checking off the next few things that must be addressed, begun, completed. This high functioning mindset came in pretty handy while running a family with five busy kids. I take no credit, it’s just how I happen to be wired. 

But in these past weeks—almost two months—the “to dos” have changed into “I don’t know what to do.” I have literally heard myself say that out loud to no one in particular: Alone in my room at night, waking up in the morning, walking around in my empty house, out in the yard, sitting in my car—“I don’t know what to do.”

Sure, don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty to do. There’s been so much to figure out. So many phone calls, meetings, decisions. So many new things to learn. Things Rick always handled which now have become my tasks. There’s a graduation party to plan for Bella and all the senior stuff that comes along with this month. There’s a house to sell and that alone creates a massive to do list: Touch up paint, clean out closets, wash the windows, trips to Goodwill. You get it. A zillion things to do. 

And yet  hanging heavy across my shoulders is this constant feeling of “I don’t know what to do.” 

It feels so odd. I have always known what to do. Always. Even when the cancer came, I still knew what to do. I knew how to take my meds and schedule my appointments and begin juicing and listen to my doctors and pay attention to my results.                 

But this is different. 

It is like a foreign entity has taken over my body. Even though I am still doing all the things, because let’s face it, I must. Even though I am pressure washing the brick patio or paying the bills, I still find myself untethered at times. Unmoored. Not faithless, just floundering a bit. Unsteady. Unsure. Wobbly. Weak. Just after Rick’s passing a foal was born at the farm down the street from us. I’ve been watching her these past many weeks as she stays close by her mama’s side. In those first days she was so unsteady on her feet. I stopped and stared at her so many times as she seemed to be the only thing in this world to which I could truly relate. This little filly who was probably wondering “how did I even get here?”

I’ve always known how to do the next thing. How to put one foot in front of the other. Over the years I have often given the advice to hurting kids or friends or family members, “Just do the next right thing.” That’s it. That’s all. And, whereas, that is true, it isn’t always that simple. I’m learning that now. At least that’s what I’m finding out in this massive battle of sorrow. The game is different. The rules have changed. There actually aren’t any rules. It is a daily slogging through tough stuff while draped in a garment of heavy grief.   

And so I cry out to the empty house, “I don’t know what to do!”  Sometimes I scream it.  Because it is an absolute mixture of sorrow and anger and maybe, lately, a touch of what feels like insanity. At least this situation all certainly feels insane.

                       

Recently, I was reminded of a passage in 2 Chronicles 20. Let’s face it, 2 Chronicles isn’t a place in which I regularly hang out much. But one verse in particular came across my path and strangely it has kept coming.

2 Chronicles 20 tells the story of King Jehoshaphat when he is given the not so great news that a vast army is heading his way to decimate his people. He knows this isn’t going to go well. His people are no match for what is coming at them. It's too big. Too much. Too impossible. After giving them his very best rallying king speech, he ends it with this humble, but incredibly honest statement: 

 

"We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you.” 

Sound familiar? Jehoshaphat utters that very same phrase which has been on repeat in my head. Almost word for word. 

We. Do. Not. Know. What. To. Do.

King or no king, he really did feel that. But God, in His mercy, didn’t leave him there alone with this hopelessness. The story continues when the spirit of the Lord speaks up and says, “Listen, King Jehoshaphat and all who live in Judah and Jerusalem! This is what the Lord says to you: ‘Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s.”

Let’s stop here for a minute. “For the battle is not yours, but God’s.” If this is true, Jody doesn’t have to know what to do. She is not holding the battle plan in her own hands. She can retire her clipboard and stop trying to make sense of the to do list. She can even stop trying to make sense of what has been done. This is God’s battle and only He can fight it for her. 

But there’s even more to Jehoshaphat’s story —

 “Tomorrow march down against them. They will be climbing up by the Pass of Ziz, and you will find them at the end of the gorge in the Desert of Jeruel. You will not have to fight this battle. Take up your positions; stand firm and see the deliverance the Lord will give you, Judah and Jerusalem. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. Go out to face them tomorrow, and the Lord will be with you.’”

Stopping again, because I don’t want any of us to miss this. What is it God is asking me to do? 

“Stand firm and see the deliverance the Lord will give you.” 

That’s pretty clear: Stand firm and see.

And then the final instruction is really the kicker for me. Instead of fighting, “Jehoshaphat appointed men to sing to the Lord and to praise Him for the splendor of his holiness as they went out at the head of the army, saying: “Give thanks to the Lord, for his love endures forever.” Yes, you are reading that correctly, the people about to be under attack were encouraged to sing. TO SING. To worship! And while they were singing and praising God, their enemies in confusion all began to fight one another and basically destroyed each other. 

When Jehoshaphat's people stopped singing and looked over the cliff they saw before them in the desert below “only dead bodies lying on the ground; no one had escaped.” 

Can you imagine that scene? I’m not sure my writing is doing it justice. You might want to go get a Bible and read 2 Chronicles 20 through yourself. Because it really is something to behold. There was no way Jehoshaphat was going to win this war on his own. There was absolutely no possibility of him or his people making it out of this alive. God had to do it for him. 

And, I guess that’s exactly where I am right now at this almost two month mark of Rick’s death. There’s no way I am going to be able to do this. I don’t know what to do, but I am sure I must do this:

Keep my eyes on Jesus —even when all I can seem to see is my pain.

Stand firm—even when I wobble a bit like that newborn foal.

Worship God—even when it feels strange and completely out of place.

"The fear of God came on all the surrounding kingdoms when they heard how the Lord had fought against the enemies of Israel.  And the kingdom of Jehoshaphat was at peace, for his God had given him rest on every side.”

At peace, for God had given him rest on every side. That is my prayer right now.  That is what needs to be at the very top of my to do list — That God will give me and my children peace and rest on every side. 

Maybe you’re in a situation where you too just don’t know what to do. You are perplexed or in pain. You are confused or in crisis. Your world feels like it has blown up and you are barely hanging on. If that’s you, then I want you to know I am there too. I am right there in the middle of all that mess as well. But, I’m pretty sure God led me to the story of Jehoshaphat so that I could help lead you to Jesus and the way He wants us to bring our burdens to Him. Yes, even the most brutal, ugly, broken burdens. Even the battles which seem too hard to face let alone win. Even those. Especially those. Bring them to Him. 

Lay them at His feet. 

Look into His face. 

And remember the story of Jehoshaphat: “For the battle is not yours, but God’s.