Seven Months: An Honest Update

It’s been seven months since my husband’s death. I wasn’t sure I could make it seven days after he left this world. And yet, somehow, month after month, time has passed.

Months filled with grief unexplainable, but also with so much to do. So much to decide. So much to learn. So much to figure out. So very much. I guess because Rick did so much. Taking over the things that were always in his lane has been an undertaking. That word doesn’t quite do justice. There was nothing “under” about it. Many times, in fact, I felt like the process was plowing me over. In so many ways it felt like an overtaking of me. 

Selling and buying and packing and moving our home arrived on the heals of my massive learning curve. It forced me to go through everything. Every little thing. I kept getting the question, “have you been able to go through Rick’s closet yet?” Go through his closet? That was nothing compared to going through the entire contents of our home and life of almost 40 years together. I spent my summer opening crates and closets and boxes and drawers. All of it tearing open even wider the wound of his absence. Our lives so intertwined for so long it was a heart-wrenching task to revisit the memories and the mementos of our marriage so soon after his death. 

But I got there. I got through it. Somehow. With the help of my children and many dear friends we did it one day at a time, one box at a time. And in the first week of September I moved into my new house, strangely enough, on Rick’s birthday. I thought that would be a good plan—all of us together and busy and buried up to our noses in boxes. I am not sure I can call it good, but it did keep us somewhat distracted and maybe a little bit numb. There is a little less time to wallow when you’re trying to find your underwear and toothbrush.  

And now it’s been a little over a month since my move and the dust is settling. The boxes are unpacked. The furniture placed. The artwork hung. The plates and cups and cutlery nestled in their new respective drawers and cupboards. And here I am in a brand new home with my brand new life. And yet—though I hate to report it—the grief has followed me here. It is now knocking at this new front door. Somedays, pounding its unrelenting fist against the wood. It didn’t forget me. It didn’t fail to find me when I changed my address. No, it moved right in with me. Somehow the sorrow got itself packed up with all of the house stuff and it has found its way to this new street, in this new neighborhood, and settled itself like a throw blanket draped across the back of my sofa. 

I know we were all hoping the new house would help. I was hoping that too. And whereas I am exceedingly thankful for the provision of it and really do love the house, I have to to tell you, it’s not been the answer. It hasn’t fixed the grief problem. It hasn’t fixed the “he’s gone” problem. It hasn’t healed the wound or filled the hole or mended the heart. It’s four walls and a roof, not a remedy. 

In some ways it has accentuated his absence. I look around this lovely new spot and I feel the void of Rick keenly. He should be here. He would really like this house. My fisherman husband should be down at the water’s edge with a rod or at the fire pit with a cigar and bourbon. There are two chairs out in the yard. One empty. His big frame should be sharing my bed and taking up half the closet. There are two sinks in the bathroom. Every morning as I stand brushing my teeth I stare at the extra one and hate how it mocks me. 

No, a new house didn’t make the world right again. But what it did do is remind me that there is nothing in this world which will. Nothing. Not a thing. My world is forever changed and my husband is forever gone and it is not ever going to be about fixing this problem. It is now about accepting it and finding a way forward in this life ahead. 

And I guess that’s where this strange double portion of trial seems to meet up. I am not only a grieving widow, but also a woman with terminal cancer so this whole present and future thing becomes a little bit tricky.

The encouragement that someday my season of sorrow over Rick’s death will lessen and clouds will clear is possibly true. But “someday” for a woman with stage 4 cancer is a pretty iffy kind of thing to bank on. I feel as if I’m caught in the crosshairs of present suffering and future uncertainty. As a cancer patient I am told to seize the day and enjoy the present. Make the most of the days now while I can. As a woman still drowning in grief the advice is to get through these days and look to the hope of my future. Well, perhaps you can see the way these two things kind of work against one another, right? A true catch 22 if ever there was one. I am not seizing my days so well right now and my future isn’t exactly very certain or bright with a prognosis such as mine.

And let me tell you, this is a perfect place in which to pitch my tent at Camp Pity Party. I can easily convince myself that other widows can have some hope for their futures and other cancer patients can have some joy in their present days. But not Jody. The present and the future both feel kind of crappy from her limited point of view.

And right here, at this point, you will find the raging the battle for my soul and my surrendered life. Right here. Do I set up camp and concede to the sadness of life? Or do I put on the whole armor of God and fight for my life? Whatever that looks like—even if it is full of great suffering now and more suffering to come. The battle lines have been drawn. The pity party pulls at me all day long. It beckons. It assures me I have every reason and qualification to wallow and wane. If anyone deserves to be miserable it is a widow with cancer. Few would attempt to dispute that summary of my circumstances.

And that is exactly why this is spiritual warfare. 

I might be caught in the crosshairs of present and future, but I am most definitely caught in the crossfire of battle for what I choose to believe about my life and the One who is Lord over it. It's a serious situation because the enemy wants to do nothing more than use this disaster to be my total undoing. He is, even right now, working on me with his whispered, wicked lies. “No one understands, Jody. No one else has it this hard. You are so alone. Why would God do this to you? What did you do so wrong? You must have done something to deserve this. Your present is so painful. Your future is so fragile. Your life went from fairytale to freakshow. How can you not see how your God has abandoned you entirely?”

The evil one’s lecherous lies come at me like fiery darts. Throughout my day, but especially in the dark hours of the night. Ping. Ping. Ping. I feel the impact of where they pierce. I wince at the pain. I cry in my affliction. Maybe, you know the intensity of what I write. The utter exhaustion.

So here I am. And maybe you are too. Maybe you’re not a widow with cancer, but you’re probably a someone with something. We’ve all got our stuff. Most all of us are under some kind of attack. And maybe, like me, you too have found out that another new thing — not even a brand new house — is going to fix it. There is not enough stuff in this world which will fill the hole we’ve (all) got inside of us. Maybe for a short time that trip to Target or Homegoods will help, but we delude ourselves if we think our doo-dads and distractions are going to do much for our pain or problems. There is no address far enough away to escape life's sorrows.  

So what is the answer? 

Corrie ten Boom said this, “Faith is when you praise God in the storm, you trust Him in the valley, and you follow Him in the dark.” 

Storms, valleys and darkness. She didn’t pretend those weren’t very real things. She lived through a concentration camp in WWII. She watched her family die. She suffered unimaginable hardship and grief. Yes, Corrie knew storms, valleys and darkness quite well. But she takes those three hard places and she pairs each one with a point of action— praise, trust and follow. 

Praise, trust and follow. These words don’t eliminate the storms, valleys and darkness, but they elevate, encourage, and, even more so, they enlist the very power of God.  This world will bring trouble. Death, disease, disaster. It is all imminent for most all of us. If not today, then maybe tomorrow. Jesus is clear on this fact. "In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." John 16:33

So what’s the battle plan when Satan comes calling? When Satan comes seeking our souls and attacking our everything.

Praise. Trust. Follow. 

Praise God. 

Trust God. 

Follow God. 

This next month I am going to try to share some writings about what each one of those things looks like. Operative word: “try.” I am not easily putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard these days. But I want you to know that is my desire. I want to share what God is doing and how He is leading me even in this very real battle. Even in the storm, the valley, and the darkness of these hard, hard days. 

I have offered up a pretty bleak picture. I hesitated to do so. Like I said earlier, I am trying to step around the pity party, but I decided an accurate picture was important. I do no one any good pretending things are all peachy and pretty and getting back on track. I would be lying if I told you seven months of sorrow has been sufficient and now I’m all settled and coming through it swimmingly. So I’ve told you the truth of my circumstances and now I hope to tell you the truth about God who is way bigger than any circumstance. Even mine. Even yours.

Let me know if you’d like to come along for this next month of Praise, Trust and Follow. I have no outline or grand plan, but I am asking the Lord to lead me in my writing and help me with my words.

The sunsets in this new yard have been amazing. Grateful for this beauty.

Our Wedding Rehearsal

This was us 36 years ago, 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. I can no longer hold the hands of my husband, but my Heavenly Father holds me now.

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